HAYRO 2! Another Parody
by Tiger Tank
Summary: Completed with High Charity! Rated M for mature, as there is profanity and stuff. Sort of a continuation of my previous parody. Seek out HAYRO! COMBAT DEVORVED! if you dare.
1. The Heretic

This is a goddamned parody. Lighten up, you sue-happy fucktards. I don't own, nor am I associated with, Bungie or Microsoft. I don't really own anything. But this silly fic that I decided to write, after reading a number of parodies. If you are offended by swearing and adult themes, then I suggest you bugger off. 

I've decided to move away from the script format for this story. If you haven't noticed.

Tiger Tank

The Heretic (Or: The Poor Sap That Has Gone Against the Rules of the Religious Orthodox Nutbars)

We now lay our scene: the cold, inky darkness of space. The stars twinkle like the cliche diamonds upon black velvet as the view of the camera slowly pans and sweeps across the burning hulks of rock and metal that used to be Installation 04. In the background are the gas giants and moons that the Sacred Ring had been located by. The camera finally stops as it focuses on the massive planetoid of a ship known as High Charity - the Covenant's capitol. Like a swarming school of small fish, innumerable, Covenant capital ships prowl the space around High Charity.

The view zooms in onto the gargantuan ship, then transitioning to the interior of High Charity. In a reference to the Death Star from the movie _Return of the Jedi_, a flight of Banshees joins a patrol of other Banshees flying across the screen as the camera continues to zoom in on the gargantuan ship's hull.

"There was only one ship," booms an alien's voice.

The scene cuts to the cavernous Chamber of the High Council. On opposing sides of the room are bleachers, Prophets on one side, and the Elites on the other. The frail-looking snails--er, Prophets are clad in simple but elegant robes, whilst the Elites are clad in lavender, ceremonial armor with big honkin' antler-looking thingies on their helmets.

"_GET ON WITH IT!_" the High Council screams. Tartarus and his two thugs fidget impatiently while the author moves on.

On the side opposing the exit, there are three Prophets sitting in cool hoverchair dealies. The center one - Truth - sits more toward the back, and his colleagues are more toward the front. On his right is the holographic projection of the youngest of the three: Regret. On Truth's left is the eldest and most wrinkly of the three: the High Prophet of Mercy. "_HEY!_" Mercy screams at the author. "You dang whippersnapper! You'd better treat your elders with respect!"

"Let's move on, shall we?" the author, clad in red MJLONIR Mk V armor, sighs in exasperation. He moves back into the shadows and watches. The Brutes and their Chieftain fidget again.

"Anyway...One?" Regret all but sneers at the gold-armored Elite standing before them. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," the Elite replied. "They called it the _Pile of Shit_...I mean, the _Pillar of Autumn_."

"Why was it not destroyed with the rest of their fleet?" Mercy demands in his old geezer voice. He then glares at the nigh-invisible author. The author in turn shrugs and mutters, "not my fault that Bungie decided to make you sound like that."

"It fled," the gold-armored zealot replies, ignoring the author's comment, "as we set fire to their planet. But I followed with all the ships in my command."

"When you first saw Halo, were you blinded by its majesty?" Regret glowers at the still unnamed Elite.

"Blinded?" asks the afore-mentioned Elite with no name.

"Yes, you _ninny!_" Regret snaps, "Paralyzed? _Dumbstruck?_" The Prophets and Elites on the council stare at him.

"No," the Elite answers.

"Yet the _humans_ were able to land on the Sacred Ring and _desecrate_ it with their filthy footsteps!" Regret all but screams. "Then they proceeded to set up innumerable Walmarts, Starbucks coffee houses, and Jamba Juice stores!" Regret picks up a styrofoam cup of coffee with the Starbucks logo on it and takes a sip. "Stupid, overpriced beverages," the High Prophet mutters.

"Noble Hierarchs," the Elite protests, "surely you understand that once the parasite attack--" his words are drowned out by the loud and raucous uproar from the council. It kind of sounds like "_ROBBLE ROBBLE ROBBLE!_" A banana cream pie is thrown and it splatters at the Elite's feet. Tartarus chucks his hammer at the Elite, which misses then returns to the Brute Chieftain like a boomerang.

"_There will be order in this council!_" Mercy bellows, "or there will be neither cheese, nor pie, nor cheesecake, nor apple juice for refreshment after this meeting!" That effectively shuts the council up. **OWNED!** Truth gravitates forward, holding up a delicate and girly, three-fingered hand to silence his brother. If one looks closely enough, one would notice that Truth's fingernails/claws are lacquered. Anyway, the council imediately shuts up as Truth prepares to speak.

"You were right to focus on the Flood," Truth says in a stereotypical gay lisp, "but this Demon...this 'Master Chief'..."

"By the time I learned of the Demon's intent," the Elite says, "there was nothing I could do. That, and it was my nappy-time."

"Excuses, excuses!" a Prophet screams.

"You lie, you pansy!" screams another.

"_NAY!_ IT WAS _HERESY!_" The Prophet that screams that last line suddenly looks embarrassed and sits back down. Another Prophet slaps the back of his colleague's head and hisses, "good going, moron! We might have to do the whole take again!" The author sighs in irritation, takes both of the Prophets in the back, out of sight of the camera. There are a pair of loud shotgun blasts that shake and startle everyone in the chamber. They all stare in horror at the author as he returns, wiping purple blood spatters from his armor and slinging a shotgun over his shoulder.

"Uhh...Noble Prophet of Truth, this has gone on long enough!" Regret hisses to Truth, "make an example of this bungler! The Council demands it!" Truth raises his girly hand to silence his younger brother, "you are one of our most treasured instruments. Plus, you make some bitch'n barbecued ribs." The Elite looks proud and hopeful at this last part. "Long have you led your fleets with honour and distinction, but your inability to safeguard Halo was a colossal failure..."

Truth halts and looks for the prophet that was supposed to scream, "_NAY!_ IT WAS _HERESY!_" but quickly remembers that the author shot him. The High Prophet catches the gaze of another Prophet and gives him a meaningful look. Immediately, the Prophet shoots to his feet and screams, "_NAY!_ IT WAS _HERESY!_" The council erupts into a uproar, everyone screaming to be heard over the other. Pies, fruits and other miscellaneous objects are thrown across the room.

"I will continue my campaign against the humans!" the Elite states, grunting as a custard pie slams into the side of his helmeted head.

"No," Truth states authoritatively, "you will not." Tartarus gives a growl to his two subordinates who move to detain the gold-armored Elite, but he shrugs them off. Truth continues, lisping, "soon the Great Journey shall begin. But when it does, the weight of your heresy will stay your feet..."

"Does this mean I get concrete shoes?" the Elite inquires, turning back to look at the High Prophet.

"_No._"

"Awww..."

"...You will be left behind," Truth finishes. The camera zooms in on his face...and hits him. "OW! Ah! Jesus Christ!" the High Prophet cries out. "That hurt!"

The picture transitions, and a moon appears where Truth's holographic Halo used to be. We now find ourselves back in the cold reaches of space...

To be continued...

Author's Note: I'm baaaaack! Hehehehe. Doing the story in a paragraph format is a little easier for me. A little. Hope you guys enjoyed this little tidbit. I'm probably going to combine several of the missions/chapters into a single...well...chapter. You'll see what I mean next chapter. It's gonna be a little long, methinks. Well, hope you guys enjoy this new story format. And I hope I can pull off a decent Halo 2 parody.

The jokes may be a little more obscure or subtle, this time around. Like the ripping off of Mr. Slave from South Park? "Ooh! Jesus Christ!" Who caught that before I said it? Honestly? Hahaha.

Anyway...hope you guys enjoy this. This is going to be a little harder to pull off, as I haven't really had that much experience playing Halo 2 - I'm borrowing my friend's XBox and his copy of Halo 2. If he's readin' this...thanks, mate!

Tiger Tank


	2. The Cairo

One Size Fits All and Cairo Station (Or: The Capitol of Egypt...IN SPAAAAAAACE!) 

The camera pans downward, a la _Star Wars_, and gives us a nice view of Earth and the MAC gun stations: Cairo, Malta and Athens. A fleet of Terran ships can be seen moving by, bristling with point-defense turrets.

"Is this thing on? Are we recording? Oh shit!"

"Just keep going," the author's voice sighs.

"Uh...the plating was about to fail," the other voice says, "there's viscocity throughout the gel layer." The camera focuses on several items laying on a table, but a Marine's crotch is also in the picture. A gloved hand scratches said crotch before picking up one of the items. "Optics? Totally fried. And let's not even talk about the power supply. Do you have any idea of how much this gear costs, son?" The camera pans upward and we can see the annoying Master Sergeant Guns before it focuses on the Master Chief, going up his armor-clad body. Just as the view comes just inferior (sorry, using anatomy terminology) to his neck, the Chief puts on his helmet and we only end up seeing his golden visor.

"Tell that to the Covenant," he murmurs darkly.

"Preeeettttyyyyyyyy...sshhhhhhhiiiiiiinnnnnnyyyyyy..." Guns drools for a moment. He gets a grip on himself, "well, I guess it was all obsolete anyway. Your new suit's a Mark-Six -- just came in from Sondheim this morning. Try and take it easy until you get used to the upgrades." The Marine briefly looks over some readings on an instrument panel. "Everything checks out. Stand by, I'm gonna offline the inhibitors."

The two metal arm thingies restraining the Chief and dangling from the ceiling fall to the floor with a loud clatter of metal-on-metal. The Chief and Guns look toward the camera nervously. The author impatiently gestures for them to continue.

"Well...move around a little, get a feel for it. When you're ready, meet me by the zapper." Guns walks over to the shield charger as the Master Chief jogs around the armory. "Take it easy!" Guns shouts, "you'll tear a tendon doing that!" The Chief ignores him. "Fine, but don't cryin' to me when you pull your leg from its socket!"

The Chief walks over to the shield charger, looking around the armory at all the pretty guns. Guns pushes a few buttons, "pay attention, 'cause I'm only going over this once. This station will test your recharging energy shields. Step on in and I'll show you." The Chief complies, but continues looking at the plethora of weapons in the racks mounted on the wall.

"Sir, look at me when I'm talkin' to you." The Chief does not reply, but continues to ogle the weapons. Guns gives an irritated growl, "the brass may kiss your ass, but _not me!_ _Look at me_ when I'm talkin' to you!" Still no response. "_FINE!_" he screams shrilly. "_I'll see you in hell!_" Guns then sits in a corner of the armory and fumes angrily, sobbing like an angry toddler. The Chief proceeded to recharge his own shields with directions from the mildly irritated author.

Sergeant Johnson walks in and looks around in confusion, "Chief, where's Guns?" Both the Chief and the author each nonchalantly jerk a thumb at the sulking Marine in the corner. Johnson walks over and asks, "Guns, what the hell are you doing on the floor?" The sullen Marine shakes his head with tears in his eyes. "Guns," Johnson says patiently, "is the Chief good to go?"

"He's a big, mean, doody-head!" Guns snaps childishly. "I hate him! I hate him! _I hate him!_"

"The Chief is just..._special_, Guns," Johnson says while the author snickers at the Chief. The Spartan slaps the author in the back of his head, giving him a death-glare that is not visible from behind his golden, mirrored visor. The author gives an equally unnoticeable death-glare in response and bashes him with the butt of his shotgun.

"I hate him!" Guns pouts.

"Thank you for putting up with the Chief, Guns. I'll treat you to dinner later, okay?"

"...'Kay."

Johnson gives the Marine a toothy grin and claps him on the shoulder, "that's a good boy." The Chief, the author, and Johnson all leave the armory via the lift.

"The _hell_ did you do to him, Chief?" Johnson growls.

"Ignored him," the Chief replies. "I was bored."

"_They're taking the hobbits to Isengard!_" the author blurts insanely. The Chief and Johnson give him a disturbed look and inch away from him. They finally enter a monorail transport and it moves slowly, giving giving them a nice view of Earth.

"Earth," Johnson sighs, "I haven't seen it in years. When I shipped out for basic, the 'Orbital Defense Grid' was only theory and politics. Now look: the Cairo's just one of three-hundred Geo-synch platforms." They turn around and looked at the long barrel of the Cairo's MAC gun.

"That's the biggest gun I've ever seen," the Chief drools in his helmet. "Is it pump-action?"

"That sounded pretty gay, Chief," Johnson arches an eyebrow at the Spartan. "Anyway, that gun can put a round clean through a Covenant capital ship. With coordinated fire from the Malta and the Athens, nothing's getting past this battle cluster in one piece!"

Suddenly, the horrid theme of the dubbed "_One Piece_" anime starts blaring throughout the Cairo station's intercom. "_**GOTTA GO! GOTTA GO! GOTTA GOOOOO! ONE PIECE!**_"

"_AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!_" the author screams as he falls to the deck, rolling around as if in great pain, "_IT BURNSSS USSSS!_"

Johnson, however, exclaims, "I _love_ this song! It's _classic!_" The Chief stares at him oddly as his helmet's audio pickups immediately filter out the racket, feeling grateful that his helmet could tune out sounds. In the background, unnoticed by the passengers of the monorail, several Marines could be seen mooning them. Other Marines could be seen rocking and dancing to the horrible music.

The monorail finally stops. Much to the disappointment of the majority of the crew, the music stops as well. Several mooning Marines pull up their pants and turn around before applauding the Chief and Johnson as the duo steps onto the deck. The author drags himself out of the monorail dealie, muttering something about Imperial Stormtroopers and gingerbread men.

The Chief tenses as he sees numerous floating holo-cams hovering around him. "You told me there wouldn't be any cameras," he mutters to Johnson.

"And you told me you were gonna wear somethin' nice!" Johnson shoots back as the Chief clips a tie onto the front of his armor and somehow throws on a tuxedo jacket. He then pulls out a Walther PPK and does a bad imitation of Sean Connery, "And I'm the _cock of the walk!_" Everyone stares at the Chief for a brief moment before Johnson continues. "People need heroes, Chief - gives 'em hope. So smile! While we still got somethin' to smile about!"

"Do I get to score?" The Chief asks. "That'd definitely be something for me to smile about. And when the Chief is happy, _everybody's_ happy."

"Dude," the author shakes his head, "you can't even get it up, anymore. Remember?"

"_SILENCE!_" the Chief bellows. "You don't have to rub it in!"

The author grins behind his helmet, "I could make a crude play on what you just said, but I'll just keep quiet."

The camera whites out and fades back in to show a pair of Brutes escorting the disgraced Elite zealot to the center of a massive amphitheater. Grunts can be heard chanting, "_Heretic! Heretic! Heretic!_"

"You've drawn quite a crowd," Tartarus rumbles as the Elite is placed upright between a pair of pillars. A pair of glowing energy restraints encircle his wrists. The Elite tugs, to test his bonds.

"It's a little loose," the Elite comments, demonstrating by tugging on the restraint, "you might wanna calibrate that after you guys finish with me."

"Oh, thanks." Tartarus mutters, "dumbass."

Energy arcs from the pillars and into the Elite's arms, resulting in a rather painful electrocution.

"_GaAaAaAaHhHhHh! ThIs SuUuUuUcKsSsSs!_"

We cut back to the Cairo's command center - a cavernous room with numerous and colorful displays, with zoned-out Marines drooling over said displays while droning, "preeeeetttyyyyy!" The Chief and Johnson enter and stop several paces before a patiently waiting, high-ranking naval officer: Admiral Hood. Behind Hood are a couple of lackeys and Commander Keyes, standing at attention.

"_Gentlemen!_" Hood screams in a fair imitation of Dr. Weird, a la _Aqua Teen Hunger Force_. "Behold! I have made love to this machine!" He gestures to the pedestal that is supposed to project Cortana just a moment after this part of the story. The irate author taps his foot impatiently, sending a deathglare toward the admiral. Hood seems to remember himself and clears his throat, "uh...I mean...Gentlemen, we're lucky to have you back."

"They're always after meh lucky charms!" the author murmurs. Everyone in the command center turns and stares for a moment before Cortana appears, "hey, bitches! We get signal! Er, I mean, we're pickin' up anomalous activity on the outer part of the Sol system. We're sending a probe droid to investigate." She is sexier than ever and now has shoulder-length hair. But she has creepy-looking eyes. Still, somewhere, a number of fan boys drool over her holographic cleavage as they fantasize and write fan fics that usually involve Cortana performing lewd acts to the Chief in one way or another that defies logic. Everyone stares at the author as he finishes this strange and long-winded paragraph.

"Well, since it's undoubtedly Covenant ships, I'll have to make this quick."

Cortana ambiguously looks at the Chief and Johnson appraisingly before commenting, "you look nice."

"Thanks." "Thank you!" the Chief and Johnson, respectively, say before looking at each other in confusion. "Was she talking to you?" They ask in unison. "I don't know, was she talking to me? I think she was talking to you."

"_Idiots_," Cortana sighs before disappearing.

The admiral clears his throat as he pins a medal onto Johnson's uniform. "Sergeant Major, the Colonial Cross is awarded for acts of singular daring and devotion. For a soldier of the United Earth Space Corps--"

"I thought we were the _United Nations Space Command_?" the Chief queries, eyeing the admiral rather suspiciously. Infuriated with the interruption, the author decks the Chief from behind with the butt of his trusty shotgun, eliciting an "_OW! THE BACK OF MY HEAD!_" from the green-clad Spartan.

The camera goes back to the Elite's torture session. He's still being electrocuted.

"Dude," one of the Brutes whispers, "wouldn't it be funny and cool if he caught fire?"

_FWOOMP!_ The Elite suddenly combusts and screams shrilly like a little human girl. The two Brutes guffaw stupidly before Tartarus smacks them, a la The Three Stooges. On cue, the energy stops and the Elite hangs limply in his restraints, his armor black and smoking. The Brutes then strip the Elite's armor from his body and chuck the pieces onto the ground.

Back at the Cairo, Miranda falls out and falls in (military terminology) beside the Master Chief and Johnson before Hood hands her a medal. "Commander Miranda Keyes," Hood says, "Your father's actions were in keeping with the highest traditions of military service. His bravery (more like stupidity) in the face of impossible odds reflects great credit upon himself and the UNSC. The Navy has lost one of its best manwhores. And we will never be able to find someone else who made such excellent cheesecake."

"So what are we?" the Chief asks, "the _UNSC_ or the _UESC_?"

"Quiet, you!" The author hefts an all-too-familiar weapon from the previous parody. Everyone present gasps in equal parts horror, shock, amazement and awe. "The Almighty Smiting Bat!" A great cheer arises through the command center as several Marines attempt to heft the author onto their shoulders, but end up giving themselves hernias. "Our savior has arrived! He will crush the Covenant infidels with his righteous strength and the Holy instrument!"

The author fidgets, then smacks the Chief in the faceshield with The Bat. "_OW, JEEZE! THE FRONT OF MY FACE!_" The Spartan slumps to the deck.

Back at the Elite's humiliating torture, Tartarus picks up a menacing-looking device...

"Oh god," the Elite shudders, "is that an anal probe?"

It's that branding iron with the **Mark of Stupidity** (a big "**L**") on it.

Tartarus presses the searing-hot brand into the Elite's chest and the latter starts squealing in agony. The Grunts and the Jackals in the audience cheer thunderously, chucking popcorn, half-eaten hot dogs, sodas, and those foam _#1_ hands at the Elite. A Grunt with one of those beer hats fires a ballista, launching a hot, freshly-baked apple pie into the Elite's face.

"Mmm!" the torturee devours the pie, momentarily forgetting about the searing hot pain on his being.

Back at the Cairo, klaxons go off and Cortana appears on the holoprojector pedestal again. "We've got hostiles coming in, directly off our battle cluster," she reports.

"Show me," Hood orders. "And sound general quarters! Launch all mobile suits, at once!"

The Chief and Johnson exchange confused expressions.

"Main screen turn on," Cortana replies. "Fifteen Covenant capital ships just outside our effective range." The massive display on the deck is suddenly taken up by a tactical sensors read-out. On the screen, a fleet of Covenant ships can be seen holding their position as ships around the Cairo, Malta, and Athens begin moving toward the enemy.

"_Covenant scum_," the Chief growls quietly.

"_This is Fleet Admiral Harper,_" a voice says over the communications network, "_we are deploying our mobile suits and engaging the enemy!_"

"Negative, Admiral! Form a defensive perimeter around the cluster!" Hood addresses Keyes, "Commander, get back to your ship and link up with the fleet."

"Do I _have_ to?" Miranda sighs, winking at the Chief. The Spartan looks perturbed behind the faceshield of his helmet and fidgets uncomfortably. Through the command center's windows, several red-and-white RGM-79 GM mobile suits can be hovering around the exterior of the MAC station. Strange-looking, cyclopean RB-79 Balls can be seen patrolling around, training their dorsal-mounted howitzer cannons on the Covenant fleet's position.

"Yes, you do. _Now get goin', bitch!_" Hood screams. Miranda Keyes slinks away as Hood turns to Cortana. "You have the MAC gun, Cortana. As soon as they come within range, open up."

"**I will rend the flesh from their bones and suck out the marrow!**" Cortana rumbles in a demonic, basso voice. Everyone present stares at her, looking frightened. She clears her throat, "er, I mean...'kay!" The voluptuous AI disappears. And suddenly, fanboys everywhere cried out in disappointment - as they knew that that would be the last glimpse of Cortana they would get until after the lengthy and arduous missions to follow.

"Something's not right," Hood muttered to no one in particular.

"You mean the fact that Cortana's gone Rampant?" the Chief asks.

"No."

"The fact that we have frickin' mobile suits at our disposal and we're still getting our asses handed to us by the Covenant scum?" Johnson growls.

"He's got a point," the Chief adds, "and training the pilots with _Mechwarrior_ and _Journey To Jaburo_ doesn't seem to be working all that well."

"No, no!" Hood shakes his head, "I mean the fact that the fleet that destroyed Reach was fifty times this size. What the hell happened?"

"Budget cuts?" the author asks. Everyone present gasped, looking absolutely scandalized.

"Those unpatriotic, _Communist hippies!_" Hood snarls like Richard Nixon's head (from _Futurama_). All present gave the admiral strange looks. The Chief cocked his head, "sir, wouldn't that be a good thing for us?"

"_Quiet!_"

"Sir!" a sensors officer called out, "additional contacts: boarding craft, and lots of 'em!" Hood wipes the foam from his mouth and murmurs, "they're going to try and take our MAC guns offline to give their capital ships a straight shot of Earth." He turns to the Master Chief, "Chief, defend this station."

"Yes, sir!" the Chief turns to Johnson, "I need a weapon."

"Right this way," Johnson gestures as he walks toward a mini-armoury well stocked with battle rifles and submachineguns.

"_Fuck that_," the Chief snorts, "I want me a _mobile suit!_"

"_Fine,_" Johnson growls. He picks up a light machinegun and hurries off. A toaster-like mouse droid rolls up to the Master Chief and gives a series of bleeps and chirps. "What's that?" the Chief asks, "you say you can show me to the mobile suit hangars? _Lead the way!_"

The little mouse droid scurries through the corridor, with the Master Chief easily keeping pace. After several moments of running, the Chief arrives at the hangar, where numerous GMs and purple OZ-06MS Space Leos are prepping for launch. One of the GMs has a giant sign that reads: "**I AM A CANNON FODDER MECHA**" hanging from around its neck.

"Oo-kay..." the Chief murmurs as he hops into the GM and activates it.

"_Hello!_" a pleasant female voice greets him, "_and thank you for piloting the RGM-79 GM mobile suit. You can call me Phyllis._"

"Hi..." the Chief replies, very confused and disturbed.

"_Would you like me to run the tutorial program?_"

"No."

"_SYSTEM ERROR LOLFOMGWTFROFLMAOBBQSTFUN00BSENDPIXPLZKTHXBAI!11oneoneone_"

"Um...'kay." The Chief arms his GM with a bazooka and a beam spray gun and heads for the launch catapaults.

"_Chief!_" Hood's voice addresses him over the radio, "_you turned your mobile suit's AI off! What's wrong?_"

"The Mastah Chef don't need no stinkin' AI!" the Chief replies as he maneuvered the GM, the "**I'M A CANNON FODDER MECHA**" sign still in place, into a launch catapault.

"_Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN-117 ready for launch!_" he radios to the flight controllers.

"_Good hunting, Chief!_" a controller replies.

"_MASTAH CHIEFU! IKIMAAAAAAASSSSUUUU!_" The catapault fires and the Chief's GM rushes out into space, joining its red-and-white brethren. The occasional Space Leo jets about, taking potshots at the oncoming enemy boarding craft with a beam rifle. And missing horribly.

"_Hey, watch it!_" one of the GM pilots curses out a Leo pilot, "_I'm on your side, remember?_"

"_STFU, noob fag!_" the offending Leo pilot retorts. His mobile suit flips the bird at the GM pilot.

"_Lead your targets, you morons!_" the Chief barks into the comm channel as he blows several boarding craft away with rounds from his bazooka. The mobile suit pilots heed his advice and begin slaughtering the strangely unescorted shuttles and their cargo.

Aboard the Covenant Flagship, the snail--I mean, the High Prophet Regret strokes his peach fuzz as he studies the battle. "_IT'S A REGAL BEARD!_" Regret snaps at the author, even though he wasn't actually there in the ship with him. How he heard me, nobody knows. The Elites and other Covenant staff in the command center stare at the Prophet strangely.

"What his problem?" a Grunt mutters to one of his colleagues.

"His Excellency is communing with powers beyond our comprehension!" an Elite snarls. "_Respect his authoritah!_"

Ignoring the lowlives, Regret ponders. "What are these humans doing here? And frankly, why didn't we send out our fighters to escort the boarding ships?" He turns to his command staff, who all shrug cluelessly after stopping their little discussion.

"_Imbeciles,_" the Prophet sighs in irritation. "Look, can you at least unleash our...weapon?"

"At once, Excellency," a white-armored Elite bows before running off to unleash...their weapon.

Around the Athens, the debris of blasted boarding craft float about, being drawn into Earth's atmosphere to be burned up. GMs and Leos, their thrusters ablaze, flit about the MAC station like fireflies as they continue to slaughter the enemy's troop transports with their less-than-par accuracy. The camera shows a beam missing one of the transports before said transport suddenly explodes for seemingly no reason.

"Stupid, cheap special effects," grouses Hood from the Cairo's command center. He lowers the binoculars he was using before he stuffs another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Suddenly, a sensor tech calls out, "sir! Something's approaching the Athens! And fast!"

A massive, yellow beam of energy slashes through the space around the Athens, resulting in a chain of blossoming, fiery-orange explosions.

"_What is that thing?_"

"_It's...it's a GUNDAM!_" Another surviving pilot screams and his transmission is cut off as his mobile suit explodes.

"A _Gundam?_" Hood looks alarmed as he looks through his binoculars. _There!_ The bag of popcorn drops from his hands as he lowers the binoculars from his eyes. "Patch me through to the Chief!" he barks. "_NOW!_"

"_Busy, Admiral!_" The Chief's gravelly voice holds a hint of irritation.

"Chief, be on the alert! _Chuck Norris_ is attacking our battle cluster!"

"_NO!_" Everyone else in the command center, as well as the Chief, gasps in fear. Chuck Norris - once the righteous hero and savior of all that is good - had turned against them in a cruel twist of fate. It is widely believed that not even the mighty Master Chief could put a stop to the insanely powerful master of Chuck-Fu. Some even say that Norris was the one who had killed the Chief's many Spartan brothers and sisters during the battle (more like massacre) at Reach.

"He's piloting the Wing Zero from Gundam Wing. How he got it, I haven't a clue..." Hood shakes his head, "Master Chief, locate Norris and _destroy him!_ If he gets down onto Earth..."

"Game over, man! Game over!" one of the techs cry out.

"_Exactly!_" Hood says, nodding in agreement.

"_Affirmative. I accept the mission._"

"_You'd damned better!_" Hood roars, "your freak ass belongs to us!"

"_Yes, sir,_" the Chief replies. "_Sir, permission to come back to the station?_"

"For what purpose, Master Chief?"

"_To bring out a better mobile suit._"

"Granted."

Meanwhile, aboard the Cairo, Johnson grunts as a few plasma shots hit him. "Ow! Dammit!" He runs up to the offending Elite, then spits in its eyes. With the Elite distracted with the substance in its eyes, he then delivers a swift kick to the alien's pelvic region. "_By the rings!_" the Elite howls in agony. Johnson finishes the Elite by emptying the magazine of his BR55 into the alien's skull.

"They got the Elite! _RUN!_" The Grunts scurry away like the frightened little midgets they are, leaving trails of urine and fecal matter as they go. The fecal matter in turn produces its own excrement. No, not really. I just made that up. The Grunts did wet themselves, though.

"Shut _up_, Author," the leatherneck barks.

"Bite me," the red-armored soldier flips him the bird before advancing with his shotgun at the ready. He primes a grenade and chucks it after the Grunts. A few seconds later, there's an explosion and several Grunt parts fly through the air. The humans get up from behind whatever cover they'd found.

"I'm _so glad_ that you came to help us," Miranda gushes and clings to the author's arm. "My _hero!_"

"Quiet, you!" The author shrugs out of her possessive grasp and faces the surviving humans. "Get on the _In Amber Clad_. I'll be helping you people from the outside." Keyes looks mildly disappointed as Johnson nods. Suddenly the intercom blares:

"_Attention, all personnel: _Chuck Norris_ is on the loose! All pilots, man your battle stations!_"

Johnson lets out a girly shriek, which kind of sounds like "_EEEEEEEEEEEEK!_", before he faints, dead away. Nobody moves to catch him and he slams into the deck. The author gives a slight chuckle before speeding off for the mobile suit hangars, leaving the humans staring at Johnson.

"Well, let's get going," Miranda sighs. The Naval personnel picked Johnson up off the deck and dragged him after Keyes toward the shuttle bay.

Not too far off, the Chief looks around the mobile suit bay, growling in frustration. "Dammit! All we have are _Leos_ and _GMs_? No wonder we're losing to the Covenant scum!" He spots the author, now clad in a red spacesuit that is similar to the ODST's. His visor, however, is gold, and he lacks the outer tactical vest that the ODSTs typically wear. In fact, all he really has is a comparatively thin flak jacket and an jetpack/air tank combo strapped to his back.

"Hey, Author!" the Chief beckons. The author looks and hurries over. "Whaddya want?"

"I need a better mobile suit. Something that isn't a Leo or a GM."

"Hmmm...lemme show you something," the author beckons and leads the Master Chief to one of the walls of the hangar. He presses a button and a keypad flashes into existence. Quickly removing his bulky glove, he quickly enters a code and suddenly the hangar wall parts, giving them a view of a formerly concealed hangar.

"Step right in and take your pick. I got dibs on the Zaku II, though." The Chief gaped at the collective badassery of the mobile suits hidden in this cache: a black-and-violet Gundam Mk. II (from _Zeta Gundam_), a pair of RMS-108 cooked-crab-colored Marasai (also from _Zeta Gundam_), and the black-and-white Nu Gundam - along with its nemesis, the red MSN-04 Sazabi - from _Char's Counterattack_.

"Damn. I forgot that the Zaku was in the shop," the author sighs. "Oh well. Take your pick, Chief."

"I think I'm aroused," the Chief dribbles in his brain bucket before pulling himself out of his daze. "Uh...any one I want?"

"Sure. I'm feeling generous."

"What's the catch?" the Chief eyes the author.

"No catch," the author replies. "Well, maybe if you could just keep that Keyes woman away from me."

"Right," the Spartan nods, "arrange a date for you two. Got that, Cortana?"

"_Yup!_"

"AAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHH!" the author screams in abject horror before going on to rant about traitorous flying geckos with explosive poop bombs and treacherous, mutant fox-cats.

"_Oh, c'mon!_" Cortana giggles insanely, "_she's cute! You two would make a great couple!_"

"Yeah," the Master Chief mutters, "better you than me."

"_Traitors! Backstabbers!_ I shall make you pay in one way or another!"

"_Chief, there's not much time!_" Hood interrupts. "_Norris is closing in! Get out there and _fight_! Fight for ever-lasting peace!_"

"_For great justice!_" Cortana agrees.

The Master Chief hopped into the Sazabi, to the author's dismay, and powers the suit up, bracing himself for the annoying AI voice to greet him.

Silence.

Relieved, the Chief launches in the Sazabi while the author debates on which mobile suit to take out.

The Chief searches the battlefield for the Wing Zero and finds it waiting for him, its arms crossed. The red-white-yellow-and-blue Gundam seems to leer at him as its green eyes flash menacingly. For some unexplained reason, the _Burly Brawl_ music from _The Matrix Reloaded_ starts playing.

"_John, old pal,_" Chuck Norris's voice laughs, "_I've finally found you!_"

"_What of it?_" the Chief growls, "_and I'm _not _your pal, so don't call me John!_"

"_It's time for you to join the rest of your freak-show Spartans, Johnny-boy!_"

"_My name is Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN-117. You killed my surrogate family. _PREPARE TO DIE!" Using his recently-discovered Newtype abilities, he launches the Sazabi's complement of funnels (remote weapon turrets, you could say, controlled by psychic powers; bizarre, isn't it?) and ignites the Sazabi's beam tomahawk.

"_I'm shakin' in my cowboy boots,_" Norris mocks him before chucking his buster rifle away and drawing Wing Zero's beam saber.

They dramatically stare each other down as the Covenant and UNSC forces engage each other over Earth. Fiery blue and orange explosions punctuate the space behind the two fighters, and energy beams criss-cross across the stars. Suddenly, the combatants charge each other.

The funnels open fire, but Norris manages to evade the shots. He slashes diagonally, but has his attack blocked by the Chief's beam tomahawk. The Sazabi kicks Wing Zero and slashes with its tomahawk. Their movements are only blurs of colored movement. They jet around the Malta, shooting and slashing at each other. They even wind up girly-slapping, for some odd reason. Their missed shots and blows, however, end up destroying the MAC station.

Suddenly, the lazy-ass author arrives onto the scene with a Marasai. Using a mobile-suit-scale Mighty Smiting Bat, he slams the holy relic into Chuck Norris, sending Wing Zero careening into the Earth's atmosphere.

"_We'll continue our fight on Earth!_" Norris cackles insanely. "_If I don't get burnt to a crisp, at least._"

"_Chief! Follow him!_" Hood orders.

"_Need a ride, fellas?_" Miranda's voice cuts in over the comm. The _In Amber Clad_ begins descending toward Earth and the Sazabi clings to the ship as it goes through re-entry. The author's Marasai turns its back on Earth and its ballute ("BALLoon-parachUTE" according to GundamOfficial) pack deploys.

"For a brick," Johnson points at the fireball that is the author's mobile suit, "he flies pretty good."

"Laaaaame," Miranda rolls her eyes before she continues watching the Marasai, worry etched into her features. Suddenly, a Covenant Cruiser descends toward Earth. "Where's that ship headed?" Keyes asks one of her bridge crew.

"New Mombasa, ma'am," the navigator reports. "Where that Norris guy is gonna hit, too."

"You copy, Chief?"

"_Yes, ma'am._"

"_Chief,_" Hood says, "_I'm sending a ground-type mobile suit into the area. Commander Keyes, I want you to get the Chief to that mobile suit! We have to destroy Chuck Norris before he can do any damage!_"

"Yes, sir!"

To be continued...

Author's Notes: Wow. That was pretty freakin' long, eh? Hahaha. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I'm glad I finally got to finish it. As you may or may not have noticed, there will be many obscure references in this fic. The next one will be making references to the anime MSG: 08th MS Team. Including the battle theme, where that ace pilot with the Gouf Custom started kicking the crap out of the 08th Team. It's an awesome piece of music.

Yeah. This is kind of MS-oriented, I know. But I kind of wanted to stray away from the walk-through approach I'd used with HAYRO! Combat Devorved! It was good the first time, but I want to broaden the horizons a little bit. Oh, it'll still be loosely tied in with the campaign, though. Just not as exact. Mostly on account that I currently don't have an XBox nor a copy of Halo 2 to play (my friend, who was loaning the game to me, has taken back his stuff). So I'm going to be going on memory.

Sorry if this parody isn't as good as the previous one. But if it's better than the previous one, then I'm glad.

Anyway...leave reviews or whatever. Sadly, it'll be awhile before I can crank out the parody on the mission in New Mombasa.

Tiger Tank


	3. New Mombasa

Outskirts and Metropolis (Or: Superman In A Dress?) 

We're treated to a bird's-eye view of the metropolis that is New Mombasa. It's a dusty city, vaguely reminiscient of Bakara marketplace out of _Black Hawk Down_. The _In Amber Clad_ hovers outside the city, launching a few Pelican dropships and the Chief's red MSN-04 Sazabi, borrowed from the author in the previous chapter.

"_The message just repeats:_ 'Regret. Regret. Regret.'"

"Catchy," Miranda comments as she leans back in her command chair, "any idea what it means?"

"_Dear Humanity: we regret being alien bastards! We regret coming to Earth! And we most _definitely_ regret that the Corps just blew up our raggedy-assed fleet!_" The Marines in Johnson's dropship give an enthusiastic "oo-rah!" of agreement.

"_'Regret' is a name, _dipshit," Cortana rolls her eyes. "_The High Prophet of Regret. And he's crying for help like a whiny, little, emo brat._"

The Pelicans fly over a building where a sniper team is perched on its roof. The spotter is looking intently through the binoculars. The sniper is also looking through his scope intently. The author's red-and-orange Marasai, without its ballute gear, suddenly steps into the background and swivels its glowing mono-eye towards them. His voice snaps over the suit's external speakers, "hey! _Don't you have a line?_"

"Hot...chick...undressing...must...stare..." the spotter drools.

Furious, the author brings his Marasai's armored fist down on the two slackers.

"...Totally...worth it," the sniper declares before dying in a pool of his own blood. His spotter follows suit.

Suddenly, the mechanical arachnoid of doom ambles into an intersection up ahead. It fires its pwnage beam and vaporizes one of the three dropships. The author's Marasai jumps out of the way as the beam hits the road by its feet. The suit suddenly bounds high into the air with a jet-assisted leap and descends upon the Scarab with its beam rifle blazing. Holes are punched through the spider-like machine's armored hull, killing the Covenant crew inside. The Scarab collapses to the ground and the Marasai starts corpse-humping the fallen machine.

"An Angel descended from the heavens and destroyed the Infidels' Abomination!" the Marines on the ground cheered. The Marasai flashed a thumbs-up and continued through the city with booster-assisted leaps. Somewhere, in a dark room, a gloved, bearded, middle-aged man leans on a desk with his elbows propped up. His fingers are interlaced, his hands supporting his head and hiding his mouth. His eyebrows furrowed. "The Angels have _returned?_" he mused as his tinted glasses flashed in a sinister manner.

Meanwhile, the Chief continues flying over the city toward Regret's carrier. "_Chief,_" Hood's voice booms over his helmet radio, "_the High Prophet of Regret has chosen to land in New Mombasa. I want you to find out why._"

"_Affirmative, sir._"

"_And make sure you dispose of Chuck Norris. I know you can do it, Chief._"

"_When can I expect that ground-type mobile suit, sir?_"

"_Oh, I forgot to tell you earlier!_" Hood's voice is sheepish. "_It was on the_ In Amber Clad."

"**WHAT?**"

Suddenly, a hail of tracers narrowly misses the Sazabi. Quickly, the Chief starts scanning the area for the source.

"_John, welcome back,_" Norris sneers over the radio, "_I've missed you!_" The Chief finally spots Chuck Norris. Now, he pilots a cobalt-and-blue MS-07B3 Gouf Custom with a gargantuan cowboy hat covering the top of its head. "_Come down and let's have a chat! Then I can send you to be with the rest of the Spartans!_"

Dramatic orchestrated music starts playing (ideally, the theme from the episode of _08th MS Team_ where the Gouf Custom starts kicking the crap out of the team) as the Chief drops to the street, accidentally crushing a few Marines in a Warthog and a pair of Hunters in the process. Their screams go unheard as the Sazabi draws its beam tomahawk and readies its massive shield. The cowboy-hat Gouf glares menacingly and levels its shield gattling with the Sazabi's head.

"_Come and taste your death, fool!_" The Chief makes a disgusted sound, "_ugh! Dammit! Author, your lines _suck!"

"_Fuck you!_" the author retorts over the comm channel. There was no time for any more conversation as Norris opens up. The massive slugs slam into the Sazabi's shield, rocking the red mobile suit with each hit.

"_MUHAHAHAHAHA!_" Chuck cackles insanely, "_I've pinned you down! You can't even move!_"

"This is bullshit!" the Chief complains. He deactivates the beam tomahawk and stows it on the Sazabi's waist armor. Then, from the shield, he removes the beam shotrifle. "_Say 'hello' to my li'l friend!_" This iss somehow unexpected by Chuck Norris, and the beams are enough to knock the blue menace onto its backside.

Taking full advantage of this opening, the Chief charges toward his fallen opponent with the rifle blazing. And smashing Marines and Covenant as he does so. Just as he closes in, Norris discards the shield gattling and whips out its heat saber. In response, the Master Chief discards the nearly-depleted shotrifle and powers on the beam tomahawk. This time, however, it turns into a full-fledged broadsword dealie. The yellow energy blade slices through the unpowered heat saber, sending the cut half of the blade spinning into the street. And slicing an unfortunate Elite in half.

Norris levels the machinegun mounted under the shield with the Sazabi's head and fires. The Chief ducks behind his own shield and slices the shield arm off.

"_Now stand down and accept your defeat,_" the Spartan orders.

"_'Tis but a scratch!_" Norris screams defiantly. He raises the heat rod arm (the glowy tentacle of DOOOOOMMM! Sounds like a Hentai flick, eh?) and prepares to unleash the glowy tentacle of death. Before the weapon can be fired, the Sazabi slashes this arm off, as well.

"Now _will you shut up and die?_"

"_I KNOW _CHUCK-FU!" The cowboy Gouf suddenly leaps into the air and captures the Sazabi's head between its armored thighs. It squeezes like a python and the Chief lets out a girly shriek as the cockpit module, being in the Sazabi's head, starts collapsing inward. He can also see the Gouf's armored groin dominating the external camera's field of vision. "_GET YOUR CROTCH OUTTA MY FACE!_" the Spartan screams.

The author suddenly runs in, bellowing, and swings the mobile-suit-sized Mighty Smiting Bat, effectively dislodging the Gouf from the Sazabi's head.

"_Take the Bat, Chief!_" the author barks over the comm. "_I'll distract this _scum!"

"_Your interference shall be the cause for your death!_" Norris screams hysterically. The Gouf, like a face-hugger, suddenly leaps onto the crab-  
colored mobile suit's head and squeezes with its thighs. The Marasai starts ramming the Gouf into nearby buildings, killing numerous UNSC Marines and Covenant, along with a good number of idiotic civilians that remained in the city. Also, a mime was among the casualties. All the while, Norris is screeching like Godzilla and the author is screaming, "get it offa me!" over the communications net.

Dazed and confused, the Master Chief clears his head and picks up the fallen Smiting Bat. The Sazabi, its face mangled and its green mono-  
eye dangling from several cables, ambles over to the locked foes. The Sazabi then proceeds to bash the cowboy Gouf's hat in.

"_NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!111oneoenoneonetwoonoes_" Norris screams as his unlikely, yet obvious, weak spot is taken advantage of.

The Gouf suddenly explodes.

From the In Amber Clad, Keyes watches in horrified fascination as a distant mushroom cloud billows up into the sky.

"Whoa," she arches an eyebrow, "what the hell was _that?_"

"Explosion, ma'am," a tech replies. "I think a mobile suit got blown up. The reactors might've gone off, too. There's residual amounts of low-level radiation in that sector."

"The Chief and Cortana?"

"Unable to establish contact with either of them."

"Send a detachment over to investigate. Hazmat kit. Can't be too careful, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

At ground zero, the Sazabi drops its majorly-pwned shield. The melted piece of equipment clatters on the glassine crater, creating a few cracks in its surface. An entire city block had been leveled by the explosion, and any Marines and Covenant who were unfortunate enough to be nearby were suffering from overpressure, shock, and flash-blindness. **Remember, kids**: **_nukes aren't anywhere as clean as you think it might be._**

This message brought to you by: _Hippies Against Nasty Nuclear Arms._ (I'm obviously kidding. But not about the nukes. "Nukes are veddy, _veddy_ bad!" And so is exposure to excessive amounts of radiation! But in this case, there isn't all that much radiation in the area. Maybe a few bits of mildly radioactive debris, but that's about it.)

"Author's obviously still alive," the Chief muses as he looks around. He focuses on the center of the sizable crater and spots the wrecked torso and head of the Marasai; Chuck Norris' Gouf was nowhere to be seen. The Sazabi strides toward the Marasai and pauses before it. "Looks like there's not a lot of radiation," the Chief says to nobody in particular. Suddenly, the Marasai's cockpit hatch opens and the author falls out.

"I back in the world!" he cries out to the sky, quite dazed and delirious.

"_And you're gonna die of radiation sickness in ten seconds,_" the Master Chief says casually.

"What?"

"_Just kidding,_" the Chief sniggers, "_there's not enough radiation here to kill a fly._"

"_You'll still have to go on that date with Commander Keyes._" Cortana adds.

"_WHAT?_"

"Oh...I forgot about Cortana," the Chief mumbles.

"_Gee, thanks, Chief._"

A Pelican flies in and a fireteam of Marines in hazmat suits drop to the ground. "_Hut-hut-hut-hut-hut!_" they chant as they spread out and "secure" the area.

"Sir!" one of the Marines salutes the Chief's Sazabi. "Commander Keyes wants you and the Author back on the _Amber Clad_, pronto!"

"All right. Race ya there, Author!" The Sazabi boosts into the air, almost frying the Marines and the author. The author eyes the Marines with apprehension, "um...do I _really_ need to get aboard?" The Marines look at each other and shrug. Then they seize him and cuff him before heaving him onto the waiting Pelican. They rendezvous with the In Amber Clad as the Covenant carrier starts turning on its axis.

"Slipspace rupture!" A tech aboard the Terran ship gasps.

"Admiral, permission to engage?"

"_Go ahead, Commander,_" Hood rumbles.

"_Punch it!_ Get in close!" Keyes orders her navigator.

"Ma'am? Without a destination solution--!"

"We are_ not_ losing that ship!"

The _In Amber Clad_ follows Regret's carrier into the slipspace vortex. Both vessels disappear through the swirling portal. Suddenly, the vortex expands outward, enveloping the city in a bright, violet-white light.

A Marine and a Grunt watch the oncoming wave of light. The two combatants watch in awe, the Marine pulling down his tinted goggles and murmuring, "_whoa._" The Grunt squeals, "_prrreeeettttyyyyyy..._"

The doomed combatants vanish as the light washes over them.

Aboard the _In Amber Clad_, Miranda gets out of her command chair and stretches. "I'm gonna go...um...take a leak. Lemme know if anything happens."

"Yes, ma'am." Several of the techs exchange glances and chuckle evilly.

Smiling, the young commander strides out of the bridge and heads for a shuttle bay. Upon entering said compartment, she sees the Master Chief restraining the struggling and hysterical author. "No! _No!_ No date! _No date!_" he screams as he wriggles in the Spartan's grasp. Since he wasn't wearing his MJOLNIR armor, he only has the strength of a regular human being.

"This'll be a fun trip," Miranda's sweet smile turns into a feral grin as she walks up to the author. "You might as well try to enjoy it, too, Author."

"_NOOOOO-HO-HO-HOOOOOOO!_" the author wails like a Grunt with a plasma grenade stuck to its head. "_AAAAAAAHHHHHH!_ Ooh...hey, that actually feels kinda _good._" The poor author is rendered helpless as Miranda's hands start roaming. Everyone else in the bay silently walks out, sealing the hatch as they leave.

"Better him than me," the Chief mutters. "Besides...I already have a skanky bitch!"

"_I don't think I count, Chief,_" Cortana deadpans.

But the fanboys/fangirls disagree...

To Be Continued...

Author's notes: Blah. I guess that one was pretty lame, wasn't it? At least it wasn't as short as the first chapter, anyway. Meh. Anyway, I just wanted to get that one out of the way. I really didn't feel like following the original bit of going into the tunnels, anyway. That was a pain in the ass. That, and I can't really think of anything funny to do with it at the moment. Besides, wasn't the duel between the Chief and Chuck Norris good? I also just came up with a rather amusing idea for the ending cinematic where the Chief jumps into the lake. Muhahaha. I shall have my revenge! Unfortunately...now we must switch over to the Arbiter's perspective for the next chapter or so.

Anyway...yeah. Review or whatever.

Tiger Tank


	4. The Arbiter

The Arbiter (Or: The Arm-biting Arby's Cashier) 

We get a view of a naked Elite's lower body (from said Elite's perspective) as its feet are dragged across a barren, cold floor. The torturee, with the fresh Mark of Shame on his breast, slowly becomes aware of his surroundings. As well as the lingering pain from his torture session. On either side, strong and furry arms drag him onward, and the stench of the arms' owners - Brutes - fills the Elite's nostrils. _Haven't these guys heard of deodorant?_ the Elite wonders. His thoughts are interrupted as someone ahead rips a long, loud and wet fart, and the fumes make the Elite prisoner gag. "'Scuse me," Tartarus grunted.

"How much further must we heft this baggage?" one of the Brutes growl in irritation, "any cell will do. How about we put him in with this lot?" The Brute nods at a prison cell with rabid Jackals snarling and clawing at the camera like starved, undead zombies. Their pink eyes, almost glowing with a light of their own, add to the whole "undead-zombie-of-doom" effect.

"_Braaaaiiiinnnnnsss..._" one of the Jackals drone.

"_Beeeeeerrrrr..._" croaks another.

"_Reality TV..._" Everyone pauses and stares at this Jackal for a moment before going back to their business.

"They could use the meat," the Brute guard continued. His companion grunted, "what about us? My belly aches! And his flesh is seared - just the way I like it!" The Brute drools and sings, "_that's the way! Uh-huh! Uh-huh! I like it! Uh-huh! Uh-huh!_"

"**No!**" Tartarus snaps. "No singing, for the love of the Forerunners! Besides, the Hierarchs have something special in mind...I just hope it involves sodomy." The Brutes chuckle evilly while the Elite shivers. They descend down a gravity lift, arriving at an open area. There is a large, central platform, with a long bridge that connects the suspended structure with the outcropping the Brutes have arrived on. They march into the structure, past a dozen Elite honor guards, garbed in ceremonial armor that vaguely resembles samurai armor. The Elite honor guards chant battle litanies...or they're just conversing with themselves out of boredom.

"Noble Prophets, I have brought the bitch," Tartarus bows before the Hierarchs, the High Prophets Truth and Mercy.

"Well done, Tartarus," Truth lisps. "Leave us. And take your thugs with you."

"But...I wanna be here for the sodomy!" Tartarus whines like a brat.

"_No sodomy for you!_" Mercy screams like a Nazi. An old geezer Nazi. "Out! Now! _Los! Schnell!_"

Grousing, Tartarus and his Brute thugs leave the chamber. Truth gravitates forward to the Elite ex-commander and states, "the council decided to have you disemboweled, hung by your viscera, and your corpse paraded around High Charity. But ultimately, the terms of your execution are up to me." For dramatic effect and emphasis, Truth clenches his well-manicured hand into a fist.

"I'm dead on the inside," the Elite sighs. "Too bad I won't be able to write that song about the ice cream cone...that serves as a metaphor for..."

"_Cheer up, emo kid!_" Truth interrupts. "Do you know where we are?"

The Elite takes a look around and ventured a guess, "ummm..._Kwik-E-Mart_?"

"No."

"_The Smithsonian_?"

"No."

"A love hotel?"

"You _wish_," Truth giggles.

"I give up."

"The _Masoleum of the Arbiter_, you _twit!_" Mercy snaps.

"Quite so," Truth states. "Here rests the vanguard of the Great Journey - every Arbiter created from first to last, each created in times of extraordinary crisis."

"The taming of the Hunters," Mercy adds, "the _Grunt Rebellion_, not to mention the _Clone Wars!_"

"_**SUE!**_" George Lucas and a legion of fanatical fans scream. Truth, Mercy, and the Elite stare at the cosplaying Star Wars fanatics for a moment before continuing. "Were it not for the Arbiters," continues Mercy, "the Covenant would have broken up long ago!"

"Even on my knees, I do not belong in their presence." The Elite blinked, "waitaminute...how can I be in their collective presence when they're all dead? I mean, haven't they moved on?"

"**_No,_**" the author's voice booms ominously, "_**now shut up and get on with the story!**_"

"_Who're you talkin' to, babe?_" a familiar, feminine voice inquires, echoing in the same manner as the author's.

"**_You heard nothing!_**"

The Elite, Truth, Mercy, Lucas, and the Star Wars fans exchange bewildered expressions before shrugging. "Damned omniscient bastard," Truth gives a sigh. "Anyway...the destruction of Halo was your error, and you rightly bore the blame. The council was..._overzealous_. We know you are no heretic."

"Then why was I punished?"

"Because we're sadistic freaks and were beating our meat sticks while you were being tortured."

"_Ewwww!_" The Elite suddenly looks confused, "I thought you religious nuts were against masturbation and hawtt, sweaty secks?"

"Anyway...behold!" Truth ignores the Elite's question, "the _true_ face of heresy - one who would subvert our faith and incite rebellion against the High Council!" A nearby holo-projector hummed to life, displaying an Elite with funky hemispherical lenses over its eyes and with a breathing apparatus shoved between its mandibles. As a result, the Elite's speech was muffled and unintelligible. Fortunately, subtitles appear beneath the projection.

"Harr haffets awr hawff! Ohen hurr highs, hi barhurs! Hey ould use arr hayth hoff arr horehahers oo ring uin oo us aww! Own ith ah apihalist ig-ogs! Ower oo ah ole-aria! Ah eigh urney ih ah--!"

The subtitles read: _"Our prophets are false! Open your eyes, my brothers! They would use the faith of our forefathers to bring ruin to us all! Down with the capitalist pig-dogs! Power to the proletariat! The Great Journey is a--!"_

"This heretic," Truth lisps, "and those who follow him _must be silenced!_"

"Their slander offends all who walk the path!" Mercy adds. "_Death to the infidels!_"

"But what can I do? You guys stripped me of my command and my rank. Ergo, I can't command ships or lead troops into battle."

"Simple: become our personal bitch--er, I mean, the _Arbiter_. Then you can kill as many of these infidels as you please." On cue, a massive pod floats down and a hatch in its side opens...and slams down on the Elite's foot, squashing it flat.

"_Owwwwww!_" the Elite howls in agony. "Owww! _By the rings!_ Such _excruciating_ pain!" His cries of agony are soon replaced with uncontrolled drooling and droning. "Preeetttyyyyy," the Elite groans as he examines the shiny, silvery armor of the Arbiter in the pod. Raised, intricate patterns and designs can be seen, as well as a helmet. With lots of pretty patterns and designs. The Elite picks up the helmet and tries it on, "hmmm...kind of comfortable."

"It looks simply _fab_ on you," Truth giggles. "So how about it?"

"What would you have your Arbiter do?"

A flight of three Phantom dropships flies out of High Charity, heading for a weird sky platform in the skies above the red gas giant that was in the vicinity of the first Halo.

Aboard the lead Phantom, a white-armored Major Elite was in the process of giving a pep-talk to the squad of Spec-Ops Elites and Grunts...

"When we first joined the Covenant, we swore an oath!"

"'In sickness and in health...'?"

"'To tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God'?"

The Major Elite and the Arbiter exchange exasperated expressions before the crisp _kachunk-chunk!_ of a shotgun being cocked makes all the Elites tense up. The author, still in his red ODST-esque uniform and accompanied by a heavily armed filming crew of red-armored Grunts, stares angrily at the Spec-Ops Elites. The Elites suddenly chant in unison, "_according to our station. All without exception!_"

The Spec-Ops leader heaves a sigh before continuing, "on the blood of our fathers, on the blood of our sons - we swore to uphold the Covenant."

"_Even to our dying breath,_" chant the Elites.

"Those who would break this oath are heretics - worthy of neither pity nor mercy! Even now, they use our Lords' creation to broadcast their lies and their _**HUMAN PORNOGRAPHY!**_" This last transgression is met with sounds of disgust.

"_Ugh!_ That's **_horrible!_**"

"Who would want to see humans _mating_? That's _sick!_"

"Weak!"

"Lemme see!" the author grins ferally behind his helmet's faceshield. Everyone present stares at the author. The Arbiter asks, "shouldn't you be somewhere?"

"Foolish in-game character!" the author chuckles, "I can _teleport!_"

"I don't see..."

"Have you read _any_ of the Mary-Sue fics out there?" the author shakes his head in disgust. "Their logic is _far_ worse than mine, and sometimes the plots smell like week-old ass! And the Mary-Sue always conveniently comes up with the best plans, and manages to pull out _deus ex machinas_ for the current problem or situation out of their asses! All the while, they're trying to write a fic to be taken seriously! I, on the other hand, am trying to make this fic as ridiculous as possible - so that peoples' heads don't asplode from the nonsense and idiocy! Then again, I don't really see how that'd work..." he pauses. "_Hey!_ Are you even _listening_ to me?"

The Arbiter and the Spec-Ops leader are too busy making out against a bulkhead, and are just about to have hawtt sweaty buttsecks, before the author fires his shotgun at them, knocking the lovers over and getting their attention.

"Don't you have lines?"

"Er..." the Spec-Ops leader scowls at the author before addressing the Arbiter, "that armor makes you look hot, but it cannot hide that mark."

"Nothing ever will," the Arbiter sighs. "Damn this freakish birthmark!" The author claps a gloved hand over his helmet's faceshield and shakes his head ruefully.

"You're the Arbiter - the will of the Prophets," the Major Elite glares, "but these are _my_ bitches. Their lives matter to me, because I expect to be _paid_ before they all get horribly owned. Your life, on the other hand, is expendable."

"Indeed." The Arbiter adopts a Gendo Ikari-esque pose, leaning on a desk that mysteriously appears out of nowhere.

The three Phantoms do a fly-by on the installation, which is hovering over the planet's surface, and a massive dust storm can be seen brewing close by. "_Leader!_" a Brute pilot reports, "_there's no doubt! The storm will strike the facility!_"

"_We'll be long gone before it arrives,_" the Spec-Ops leader replies dismissively. The Phantoms hover over a landing platform and begin depositing troops with their grav-lifts. Quickly, the Elites head down a ramp and gather around a door. "_Warriors, prepare for combat! We are the arm of the Prophets, Arbiter, and you are the blade. Be silent and swift, and we shall quell this heresy without incident!_"

"Silent and deadly!" one of the Spec-Ops Grunts giggle - and is promptly slapped in the head by the author. "Stop over-using the fart jokes!"

The airlock door opens and the slaughter begins. The Arbiter, using his crappy cloaking device, sneaks up behind one of the Heretic Elites and is about to clobber him when an exclamation mark appears over the Heretic's head and the Elite turns around to stare at the Arbiter.

"You've gotta be _kidding_ me," the Arbiter groans as the Heretic Elite raises the alarm and fires at the Arbiter with a Covenant carbine. A chaotic and bloody firefight ensues, which ends on a bunch of those weird, energy conveyor belts.

"Y'know...these plasma rifles suck ass," the Arbiter comments. And is promptly bitchslapped by the Spec-Ops Elites present. "_Ow!_ What the hell was _that_ for?"

"Heretic!"

"_Do not insult the all-mighty plasma rifle!_"

"_Yes!_ With its purifying flames, we can _cleanse_ the heretics in a baptism of _plasma fire!_"

"You guys are n00bs," the Arbiter scoffs. He drops his plasma rifle and exchanges it for a Covenant Carbine. Then he eyes the author's shotgun with envy. "Is there any chance that I could...?"

"No," the author deadpans. "Unless you can distract that Keyes woman for me."

"MIRANDA KEYES AND ARBITER PR0N F0MGZ!11" a bunch of rabid fans scream.

"NO! MASTAR CHEF AND MIRADNA 4 EVA!111" another group of similarly rabid fans scream.

"STFU! CHEIF N CORTANA!1"

The impatient and angry author flashes a hand-signal to his filming crew. The red-armored, helmeted Grunts all break out Fuel Rod Guns and take aim at the mobs of fanboys and fangirls. "lol u guys r n00b fagz0rz" some of the fans chuckle. A salvo of plasma is unleashed, and the irritating fans are vaporized in a green cloud of energy. With another hand-signal, the Fuel Rod Guns disappear and the Grunts take up their cameras and other recording equipment, again.

"Let's carry on, shall we?"

The horrified Elites nod as they hurry to complete the level. The Spec-Ops Grunts waddle up to the author, "can we have big guns, too?"

"If you manage to survive until the Arbiter ditches you...sure!" The Grunts cheer loudly and follow the Spec-Ops Elites.

After a good bout of fighting, and the Arbiter's team losing all but a pair of Elites and a single Grunt, the Spec-Ops team finds itself in a small lift. The Covenant scratch their heads, trying to figure out where the control panel is, despite the fact that it's the only onel in the lift. And it's immediately visible upon entering said lift.

"_What's the hold-up?_" the author's voice barks over the communications network.

"We can't find the control panel for the lift," the Arbiter replies, his hands clenching and twitching in agitation.

"_Isn't it right there?_"

"Right where?"

"_You've gotta be kidding me! It's right in front of you as you enter the lift!_"

The Covenant get off the lift and get back on. "Where?"

"_In the center, goddammit!_" The Grunt pushes the button and activates the lift, causing it to descend. The Elites all exchange shocked looks - they had just been outdone by a Grunt, after all. And the Grunts weren't all that smart. Sure, they were smarter than Hunters, Drones, and maybe Jackals. But it was just embarrassing for them that a Grunt figured out how to work a stupid lift before any of the three Elites could. For some odd reason, the music from _Goldeneye 64_'s "Facility" level starts playing.

Eventually, they descend into a hangar/cargo bay. Elites, dressed in Soviet Red Army uniforms and wielding AKM assault rifles, patrol the bay as heretic Grunts totter about, lifting and loading strangely-shaped crates filled with an unknown mineral that glows an eerie blue. The Spec-Ops team cloaks and disperses into the shadowy corners of the room, when the lights in the room fail, plunging them into almost utter darkness. A weird, techno theme starts playing (the song from _Metroid Prime_ when Samus is facing down Space Pirates).

"What the...?" the Arbiter looks around as the heretic Elite guards unsling their AKMs and sweep the muzzles of their weapons around. Suddenly, a black-armored humanoid bursts into the room. Its glowing, blue armor highlights are blurred flashes of light as the newcomer incapacitates the heretic Grunts and removes their methane masks, allowing them to asphyxiate. The heretic Elites fire their assault rifles at the newcomer, and it retaliates with a few bursts of blue energy from an armcannon. The Elites dissolve in flashes of blue-white light, remnants of their assault rifles clattering onto the burnished, alloy deck.

The humanoid aims its arm at one of the containers and a blue-white bolts of energy emanates from its hand. The blue substance in the crate starts to disappear, as though the being were actually absorbing or consuming the substance, somehow.

The Spec-Ops Elites and the Arbiter wisely decide to wait for this strange, potential hostile to finish its business. After draining all the containers of the unidentified, blue mineral, the humanoid departs, blasting open a door to make an exit. The loud techno music stops.

The lights reactivate, and the author and his filming crew deactivate their active camouflage, the Grunts looking unfazed by the strange event they had just borne witness to; in stark contrast, the surviving Spec-Ops Grunt was running around, screaming his little head off, yammering about a demon.

"What in the name of the Forerunners was _that?_" the Arbiter asks the red-clad author. However, he does not answer, hoping to thicken the plot. Or maybe he thought it was just that obvious and that the readers have already figured out the identity of the powerful, black-armored marauder. The readers, and the unfortunate cast members, will have to find out later on in the story. FORESHADOWING!

"_Arbiter!_" A Brute's loud, booming voice makes the Arbiter's headset crackle, "_open the hangar bay doors so that I may deposit reinforcements!_"

This time, the Arbiter easily locates the bay door control panel and pushes a button. The doors open, allowing a Phantom dropship to squeeze in and drop off fresh meat for the grinder. Aforementioned meat was followed by a team of Spec-Ops.

At that moment, however, enemy reinforcements suddenly flood into the room. The irritating Sentinels float about, shooting their little lasers at the Spec-Ops team, while a pair of heretic Grunts set up a pair of plasma cannons. Before they can unleash a hail of fiery, blue, plasma death, a plasma grenade sticks to one of the gunners. Panicking, the little Grunt abandons his post, running to his fellow gunner in a panic, flailing his arms and squealing, "_get it off! Get it off!_" The plasma grenade detonates, destroying the gun emplacements and killing the gunners.

The rest of the heretics are swiftly put down before _Duel of the Fates_ suddenly starts playing. To the strains of a choir, a heretic Elite carrying an energy sword steps forth, grinning at the Spec-Ops team. The Elites open fire, but the shots are deflected by the blade. Out of nowhere, Luke Skywalker (who saw that one coming?) runs in and whines at the author, "_hey!_ You guys are stealing my shtick!" In response, the author gives the Jedi a face-full of shot, effectively mutilating the poor boy and knocking him flat on his back. At a handsignal, one of the author's Grunts waddle over to the corpse and start corpse-humping said corpse. Boy, was that repetitive!

The Arbiter steps forward to meet the heretic Elite, drawing his own energy sword hilt and activating it dramatically. "Prepare for your death, heretic!"

"Ah 'east aye'm 'ot ah shubshurrvent 'itch-'oy off 'ose 'iars hat 'all 'emshells 'offets!"

Subtitles appear on the screen: "_At least I'm not a subservient bitch-boy of those liars that call themselves Prophets!_"

The Arbiter glowers at the heretic and tenses. The heretic starts swinging its energy sword around in an attempt to look cool...and winds up lopping off his own legs.

"_Nuts,_" the heretic says before dying from shock. And blood loss, even!

"Well, that was rather anti-climactic," the Arbiter comments.

The team moves onward, using their awesome "1337-ninj4 skillz" and "plasma-'nade-tossing skillz" to slaughter heretics and the floating Sentinel bots. Finally, they arrive to a room with a large, impenetrable glass window where three gold-and-purple Banshees are parked on a ledge. Standing by one of the Banshees is the red-armored Heretic leader. Spotting the Spec-Ops team, he points and addresses the author and his crew of Grunts - unfortunately, his words muffled due to the breathing apparatus between his mandibles.

"Ha impidel ap-ogs o' ha 'apihalist haffets 'ahve a-hived! 'Old 'em aw, aye others, sho aye 'an ru' a-hey 'ike ah aired 'ittle 'irl!"

The subtitles on screen read: _"The infidel lapdogs of the capitalist Prophets have arrived! Hold them off, my brothers, so I can run away like a scared little girl!"_

With that, the heretic leader boards the center Banshee and buggers off. On cue, a bunch of heretic Elites and Grunts swarm into the room and fire on the Spec-Ops team from opposite sides - the rebels have them caught in the middle. The heretics are terribly owned, although the Arbiter and another Elite are all that remain of the Spec-Ops team. The Elites hop into the two remaining Banshees and the Spec-Ops leader's voice fills the comm: "_Arbiter, follow him! I'll send one of our Phantoms to cover you._"

"_Affirmative,_" the Prophets' errand boy replies. A hail of blue plasma bolts flash past his Banshee's wing, some of which blacken the surface of the airframe. The Arbiter and his wingman break off and engage the gaggle of heretic-piloted Banshees.

The author and his filming crew are left behind. Through the viewport, they can observe the fierce dogfight enusing outside, and stare at the pretty explosions and plasma bolts lancing through the air. "Are you getting all this?" the author asks one of his Grunts.

"Yes. We getting pretty pictures!"

"Good...good," the author rubs his hands together. "Continue filming from here and call for evac once you're finished. I'll be taking the second crew to cover the second part of this assignment. Your payment of cheesecake and lemonade is back aboard the ship."

At the news of the delicious goodies, the Grunts giggle and chatter excitedly like little school children as the author leaves the bay door. And a bunch of Flood suddenly pop out of nowhere and horribly pwn them. Hearing this and seeing this from outside the viewport, the author gives a sad sigh. "I really _liked_ those little guys..." He turns around and prepares to swan-dive off the edge, but the Fuel Rod Guns inside suddenly blow up, making the author lose his balance and fall off the edge. "_Wendy, I can fly!_" he screams as he plummets toward certain doom.

Meanwhile, the Arbiter, his wingman, and the support Phantom are still flying around in search of the heretic leader, blowing up random weapons emplacements and enemy Banshees.

"_Are we _there_ yet?_" the Arbiter and his wingman ask.

"_**No!**_" the Brute pilot aboard the Phantom snarls. "_Dammit!_ It was only a matter of time before they started doing this."

"_I have to _pee!" the wingman complains, "_and I don't wanna die in pee-pee pants!_"

"_I'm _hungry! _And _thirsty! _And _bored!" the Arbiter whines.

After a lot, and I mean a lot, of flying and complaints - not to mention the Brute pilot bashing his skull on the instrument panel repeatedly - they finally reach the place where the heretic leader has fled to. Shade turrets, manned by heretics, spit crimson bolts of plasma at the Phantom and the two Banshees. Heretic grunts armed with Fuel Rod Guns unleash a firestorm of glowy, green missiles at their airborne enemies. The Arbiter and his wingman return fire, running their fighters through the mill and making full use of their Banshees' mind-blowing maneuverability - the sort of maneuverability that would make the eggheads at R&D shit themselves and definitely something that would make any modern-day fighter pilot cream his or her flightsuit.

Anyway...they clear a landing zone, and the Arbiter and his wingman touch down on the platform. A Phantom deposits Spec-Ops reinforcements, as well as the Spec-Ops leader armed with an energy sword. They all gather around a door.

"Where's that annoying author?" the Spec-Ops leader asks. The Arbiter and his wingman shrug in response. Suddenly, an inflatable boat falls on them, crushing them beneath the boat's hull. A team of sixteen, helmeted, red-armored Grunts armed with MP5Ks hop out of the boat as a Pelican dropship flies away. Just as the Arbiter and his wingman get out from under the boat, they're immediately brought back down as the author teleports in and falls on them. Breaking the wingman's spine and killing him.

"Sorry about that!" the author apologizes as he gets off the two Elites. "So, are you guys ready?"

"Yeah," the Spec-Ops leader grunts. "But what's with the Grunts?" He points at the SEAL-Grunts. Unlike the Spec-Ops Grunts, the author's SEAL-Grunts are calmly and systematically scanning the area around them, sweeping their MP5K submachineguns around. The Spec-Ops Grunts, on the other hand, are behaving like normal, not-so-bright Grunts, touching each other's methane tanks and chattering loudly amongst themselves. Quite a difference in professionalism.

"Oh, they're just my filming crew." The author pulls out an M1911A1 and gestures at the door with it, "after you." After nodding, the Spec-Ops leader barks orders to his team. The Spec-Ops team moves up to the door, taking a defensive position around it, and waits for the door to open.

To be continued...

**Author's Note**: Yes, what few fans I actually have, I've finally updated this story! School's been hell and I got sick a while ago. Having a debilitating fever for five days - and then having to take a test I didn't get to study for, due to said fever - really sucks balls. But yeah. I'm getting better and I finally managed to finish this chapter.

Sorry about the lack of MS action in this level and the next - there isn't really any room for that. I hope the other jokes were sufficient enough. However, it's hard to be funny while being sick, although some would argue that it'd be easier to be more random and insane while your body is all screwed up from illness. Maybe. But I'd rather avoid complete and utter nonsense, which tends to make things less enjoyable than they could or should be.

Anyway...yeah. Hope this was enjoyable.

Tiger Tank


	5. The Oracle

The Oracle (Or: That Old Lady In The Matrix) 

Music from _The Rock_ (the movie with Sean Connery, Nicholas Cage and Ed Harris, not the one about the wrestler) plays as the camera fades in to show a metal door, one of many in the facility that the Spec-Ops team is infiltrating. Suddenly, the door explodes inward, and the music picks up. Amidst the smoke and flames, eight, helmeted, red-armored Grunts armed with MP5K submachineguns flow into the room with their weapons constantly sweeping around the antechamber they just breached. "All clear!" the squad leader barks. The author enters with the rest of his little SEAL team of Grunts, an M1911A1 pistol in his hand. "_That's_ how you breach and clear, gentlemen," he addresses the Spec-Ops team that enters and eyes the SEAL-Grunts in amazement.

The Spec-Ops leader suddenly pauses and sniffs the air.

"What is it?" the Arbiter inquires.

"That stench," the commander replies, "I've smelled it before..."

"Sorry. It was just so exciting and I had to--"

"No, it's not fart gas." The Spec-Ops leader shakes his head inwardly. This idiot used to be my commanding officer? Ridiculous!

The Spec-Ops team takes point and comes to a room with an opaque, glassine floor. Underneath the glass, they can see blurred shapes moving about below them. The muffled sounds from the fierce battle below pierce the otherwise silent room. They can hear voices of Elites crying for their mothers, screaming about unimaginable pain and suffering. Or maybe it's just a huge, nasty, alien orgy. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Even the SEAL-Grunts look a little unnerved by the strange sounds coming from the level below.

The Spec-Ops team files into a room that looks suspiciously like one of the countless lab rooms that one might find on a Halo installation. A catwalk that runs around the room converges in the center around a glass chamber. A pale green mist hangs in the air, and the stench of rot and decay is omnipresent.

"That's what I smelled," the Spec-Ops leader whispers to the Arbiter, pointing to a carcass. The Arbiter makes a face and jumps down to the lower floor and the Spec-Ops team follows suit. At a signal from the author, the SEAL-Grunts rappel down to the floor and secure a small part of the room for themselves. Four of the Grunts follow the Spec-Ops team, making sure to get good angles with their little, shoulder-mounted mini-  
cameras.

Suddenly, a little ball of blue light flies into the room and a glowing projection of the heretic leader flashes into existence before the puzzled and surprised Spec-Ops team.

"He's here! He's here!" one of the Spec-Ops Grunts squeal excitedly. He hefts a Fuel Rod Gun onto his shoulder and fires at the projection. For some odd reason, though, the shots actually connect and the heretic leader's projection screams. "_Ow! _OW!_ That frickin' _HURTS!"

"Hold your fire!" the Spec-Ops leader shouts, "hold your fire! It's just a holo-drone."

"_How is that possible?_" the heretic leader groans as he nurses plasma wounds, "_that really hurt! I'm going to have_ burns _there, you idiot!_" The author wordlessly safeties and holsters his sidearm, then pulls out his shotgun before aiming it at the heretic leader's head. "_Okay, okay!_" The heretic leader clears his throat, "_so they sent an Arbiter after me. I was wondering who they would send to shut me up - I'm flattered._"

"Hey, waitaminute!" the Arbiter protests and everyone turns to face the gray-armored bitch-boy. "How come your voice isn't all muffled, now?"

"_That's a very good question,_" the heretic leader's projection nods in agreement as he turns to the author, "_why is that?_"

"It's kinda hard to keep typing like that," the author sighs. "So I decided to cut it out for the remainder of the story. Doesn't matter, since you're gonna die, anyway."

"Lazy ass," the Spec-Ops commander mutters. His remark is met with a face-full of shot, and the Elite is knocked onto his backside as a result. The author gives the Spec-Ops leader a smoldering glare from behind his helmet's visor, "don't you have a line?"

"Uhh..." the white-armored Elite addresses the heretic leader's projection, "where are you hiding? Come out so we may kill you!"

"_Get in line,_" the projection scoffs before disappearing. The holodrone dramatically drops to the floor with a clatter. Suddenly, a horde of Flood combat forms pour into the room; dripping green blood and groaning like hung-over drunks at ten in the morning, they stagger towards the Spec-Ops team with deceptive speed.

"OMGHI2U!11" one of the zombies scream before tackling an Elite to the floor and humping the poor Spec-Ops Elite vigorously.

"By the rings! Get it off! _Get it off!_" There's a sickening crunch of bones as the zombie breaks both of what would be the Elite equivalent of the human femur - plus, the poor Elite's pelvis is crushed.

The SEAL-Grunts activate their cloaking devices and disappear, fanning out and getting footage of the Spec-Ops team getting raped by the Flood zombies and the little Infection forms. And I mean "raped" in both the figurative and the literal senses. The "battle" rages on as the Elites are bludgeoned and boned by the combat forms, while the Spec-Ops Grunts die of fright and asphyxiation. Don't ask how, the author is too lazy at the moment to bother with an explanation. Several readers boo and toss not-quite-empty beverage cups at the author, who retaliates with a flashbang grenade followed by the emptying of the contents of his shotgun's magazine tube upon the displeased and unruly readers. Said readers are downed and lay on the floor, screaming and crying.

The Flood zombies are finally put down, and only the Arbiter, the strangely invincible Spec-Ops leader, and one of the Spec-Ops Elites manage to survive the ordeal. The Spec-Ops leader turns to the Arbiter, "go, Arbiter! I'll follow when our reinforcements have arrived."

The Arbiter goes through an airlock and finds himself in a massive lift. For some reason, said lift has two ramps ascending to a catwalk that surrounds a column. There are spaces around the circumference of the circular lift platform that someone can fall down, resulting in a death - rather frustrating, considering that one must deal with Sentinels and Flood on such a cramped platform.

However, for the sake of the story, the Arbiter cannot die repeatedly, respawning each time. While that may happen in the game, this typically does not happen in real life. Despite the fact that this is science fiction, the fact that this is based on a game, and that this fic is a goddamned parody (and a ridiculous one, I might add), the author still wishes to retain some degree of reality. Personally, he usually finds plotholes and the like to be rather distasteful. Not to mention the completely random nonsense - which isn't all that funny (I'm easily amused, but not that easily amused).

By the time the author finishes this little rant, the Arbiter has already finished the elevator portion of this level and is currently walking down a corridor littered with alien blood and gore. Not to mention a Covenant Carbine and a Sentinel beam. The Arbiter, having already discovered the ineffectiveness of the carbine, trades the weapon for a Sentinel beam. "All the other weapons in this level suck against the Flood," the errand boy grouses, "I might as well try this stupid thing."

The Arbiter finds himself in a corridor with windows that show him a laboratory down below. Three little islands in the room are being held by the heretic Elites and Grunts against a milling tide of both Flood zombies and the pulsating flesh-bags that are carrier forms. The platform in the middle of the room soon falls to the Flood, and the tripod-mounted plasma cannon is destroyed - crushed by a carrier form and then blown up by the carrier form's suicide-bomber-esque attack.

"Ohhh man," the bitch-boy groans, "this _sucks!_"

"Yeah, I hated this part," the author nods in agreement, "I think there was a bug with the trigger to open the damned door on the other side. And the stupid zombies just kept coming." The Arbiter drops his weapon and sobs into his hands like a whiny little Grunt, "_noooo-ho-ho-hoooo!_"

"It sucks. But since I'm so merciful and benevolent, I'll cut you a deal."

The Arbiter shoots an inquisitive look at the author, "a deal?"

"Yeah. You '_distract_' Miranda Keyes for me, and I'll help you on your missions. Deal?"

"What do you mean by 'distract'?"

"You shall know in good time..."

"_No way!_ I'm not agreeing to something without knowing what it is!"

"Ohhh, yes you will!"

"Ohhh, no I won't!"

"Ohhh, yes you will!"

"Ohhh, no I won't!"

The author thinks the readers already know where this is headed. Let's just say that it took a minute for the author to fool the Arbiter into agreeing to his mysterious and potentially evil terms.

"_Dammit!_" the Arbiter slaps his helmet, "I can't believe I fell for that _archaic_ gag!"

"It's a classic," the author shrugs. "Cliche, even."

"I _hate_ you."

"Say that to Keyes. Except replace the word 'hate' with 'really want to have hot, gratuitous, sweaty, interracial sex with'."

"f0mgz Miradna 'n Armbiter pr0nz lololol!11" a group of deranged Halo 2 fans scream. The Prophets' errand boy shivers uncontrollably at the mere thought as he picks up his Sentinel beam. At a handsignal from the author, the fans are gunned down by the SEAL-Grunts and their MP5K submachineguns. Their corpses are immediately burnt to a crisp by the Arbiter so they cannot be turned into Flood zombies.

"No reneging on the deal, Arbiter," the author warns, "you will regret it - believe me, I'll have you begging for a quick and relatively painless death by gunshot to the head."

"_Fine._" Defeated, the Elite jumps down into the lab below and the author follows suit; while the Arbiter touches down with the grace of a cat, the author hits the ground and falls onto his side. "Owwww," he groans. The SEAL-Grunts rappel down after him and immediately engage the Flood zombies. One by one, the Flood fall to the hail of accurate gunfire as the Arbiter and his allies move for the door. Unfortunately, just as they reach the door, it opens and they are faced with heretics.

"Oh frack!..." hisses the author as he leaps out of the line of fire. Which is a good move, as a Flood combat form had just leaped at him. It misses and ends up tackling one of the heretic Elites. The poor bastard is enthusiastically humped by the zombie until he dies from shock and from a few broken bones - mainly the pelvis.

Forgetting about the author and his band of SEAL-Grunts, the heretics immediately engage the Flood zombies. Turning on their cloak fields, the Arbiter, the author, and the Grunts slip into the airlock and continue onward. After a great bout of fighting and sneaking around, they finally arrive at a cavernous chamber with a ramp that spirals upward into darkness. The Arbiter chases the heretic leader up to a portal, but just as the Arbiter is about to slice the heretic leader in half with his energy sword, a shield flashes into existence between them.

"This will save me from the storm," the heretic Elite sneers, "but you will be ass-raped by those gangrenous zombies!" The Arbiter slams his fist into the shield and screams, "_your matron, bitch!_"

"I tapped _yo_ momma!" the heretic Elite flips off the Arbiter and makes faces, as well as suggestive and vulgar gestures, from behind the shield. The Spec-Ops leader arrives with a group of reinforcements and an energy sword in hand. "Arbiter, where is he?" The Arbiter glowers at the heretic leader behind the shield, who is currently pretending to spank something between his legs. The commander grunts, "that little bastard locked himself in tight."

"We will force him out," the Arbiter continues to send death glares to the heretic leader. Currently, said heretic leader is mooning the camera, rubbing his shapely posterior around on the barrier. For some odd reason, probably for convenience or due to lazy Bungie programmers, his derriere isn't being vaporized. Or maybe it's just a magical barrier? Anyway, the Spec-Ops leader turns a puzzled glance toward the Arbiter, "how will you do that?"

"Maybe I could flush him out with my poo gas...?"

"Don't be foolish," the commander shakes his head, "only the _Demon_ is capable of selectively destroying things with his flatulence. You could kill us all!"

"Oh, right." The Spec-Ops team all hold their chins as they try to put together a solution for their current problem. The heretic leader gets bored and breaks out a magazine and a folding chair. Finally, the irritated author clears his throat loudly and points at the ceiling. The Arbiter and the Spec-Ops leader exchange bewildered looks before the former asks, "what about the ceiling?" The author points at the Arbiter's glowy sword and jabs a finger at the ceiling in emphasis. Still, the Elites don't get it. Sighing in exasperation, the author storms out of the room, taking his SEAL-Grunts with him, grumbling under his breath about stupidity.

Moments later, there is a massive explosion above them, and the entire facility shudders and falls out from beneath their feet. The energy shield dissipates and the heretic leader runs for the exit, screaming shrilly like a little girl.

"What _was_ that?" the Arbiter asks.

"**I suggest that the Arbiter pursue the heretic leader and the rest of you get out of there,**" the author's voice booms.

"What happened?"

"**My team planted explosives on the cables keeping this station from falling into the gas giant and being utterly destroyed by the gravity well,**" the author explained, "**it would be best if you all started moving now. Any delay could result in...dire...consequences.**"

The Spec-Ops team exchanges looks with one another before the author bellows, "_**GET A MOVE ON, YOU IDIOTS!**_" Everybody runs for the exit as the Arbiter runs through the stupid facility. After a long, irritating, and mundane chase scene, the Arbiter finally catches up with the heretic leader in the hangar bay where the strange, black-armored humanoid had appeared in the previous chapter. The previously unmentioned Seraph fighter in the bay is still there, and the heretic leader is just about to get aboard when the Arbiter arrives.

"Turn, heretic!" The crimson-armored Elite heretic obliges and gives their race's equivalent of a human smile. "Arbiter?" he grunted, "I would rather die by your hand than have the Prophets lead me to slaughter."

"Who has taught you these lies?" the errand boy demands. On cue, Tinkerbelle...er...I mean...343 Guilty Spark floats into the room. The Arbiter stares in awe, "the _Oracle_?"

"No, _I'm_ the Oracle!" The camera shifts as an elderly black woman shuffles into the room. "What do you want? If you're some freak that's obsessed with my eyes, then you can go the hell away!"

"Erm..."

"I am 343 Guilty Spark," the little lightbulb introduces itself in a voice similar to C3PO's (George Lucas whispers: "SUE!" before being put down by a shot from the author's .45-caliber automatic), "I am the Monitor of Installation 04."

"Ask the Oracle about Halo," the heretic leader addresses the Arbiter, "about how they would sacrifice us all for nothing!"

"More questions?" Spark asked, "_splendid!_ I would be more than happy to assist!"

But before the Arbiter can say anything, the heretic leader fires at him with his plasma rifles. He takes to the air with his jetpack...and suddenly there are three of him. Well, actually, two of them are just poorly-drawn, cardboard cut-outs suspended from fishing line. "What in the name of the Prophets...?" the Arbiter stares at the three heretic leaders before him. They suddenly start circling around him like sharks.

"If you can guess which one is the real me, you win!" the heretic leader laughs. Suddenly, Link leaps in and points at the heretic leader, "_hey!_ You're biting off of that Poe boss I had to fight in the Forest Temple!"

"So? _Get lost, kid!_"

Link angrily slices the heretic leader in half...and the two cardboard halves fall to the ground. The fake heretic leader is immediately replaced with another one. "What in the names of the Goddesses...?" Link scratches his head, "I could've _sworn_ that was the real one!"

"Who _are_ you?" the Arbiter goggles at the green-clad Hero of Time.

"I'm _Link_! The Hero of Time! Wielder of the Master Sword!" The boy poses and flexes his...erm...muscles...in an attempt to look cool. Also, there are little, unexplained, twinkling lights around his body as he shows off.

"Settle _down_, Colonel Armstrong," another blue lightbulb sighs. Except this one has wings. And it's a girl's voice that's emanating from it.

"Uhhhh..."

"_Watch out!_" Navi screams shrilly at the Arbiter as the heretic leader gives him a wedgie. In midair. Resulting in the Arbiter crying out in pain. The bitchboy flails about, screaming about wanting to be put down and about how the underwear was chafing his delicate skin. Link, on the other hand, whips out his bow and arrows and starts shooting wildly at the cardboard cutouts, ignoring Navi; even though the little fairy is circling around the real heretic leader and screaming, "_hey! Listen! Watch out!_"

Shaking his head in irritation, the author walks away and returns with a Browning M2 .50-caliber machinegun. Trailing him are a pair of his SEAL-Grunts, each carrying a can of ammo. He sets up the weapon, locking and loading. After taking careful aim, he fires...and Navi is splattered into miniscule fairy bits.

"_Finally_, things just got a little quieter," the author exhales in relief before aiming at the heretic leader and shooting him dead. The jetpack goes out of control, sending the heretic Elite crashing into the support columns and the walls before finally powering off as the Elite crashes into the ceiling. With a sickening crunch of metal and bones, and a meaty **_thump_**, the heretic leader drops to the floor. He lets out a dying groan and instantly gets a burst of machinegunfire in his chest.

"Is he dead?" the author asks. The Arbiter walks up to the body and starts corpse-humping it. "Take _that_, you fucking n00b!" the Arbiter cackles triumphantly. He then begins dragging the body toward the hangar bay door.

"How unfortunate," Guilty Spark laments, "his edification was most enjoyable."

"I had no choice, Holy Oracle. This heretic imperiled the Great Journey."

"'Oracle'? 'Sacred Journey'? Why do you meddlers insist on such inept verbiage? _Oh my!_" Tartarus appears and whips out his magnetic hammer. Spark shivers, "no! Not _that!_ Anything but that!"

"Yes, _that._" Tartarus powers on the magnetic field of his hammer and uses it to draw the Monitor to him. Guilty Spark hits the hammer with a dull, reverberating clang. Indignant, the Arbiter protests, "_that is the Holy Oracle!_"

Tartarus casually peels Guilty Spark from his hammer and tosses the AI onto the waiting Phantom dropship. "Hmmm...so it is. _Come!_ We are leaving this system." Grudgingly, the Arbiter obliges and hurries to get aboard the dropship.

"_Finally!_" the author exultantly throws his hands into the air. "I'm _done_ with this bloody chapter!" His jubilation is put on hold as he feels insistent tugging on his sleeve. The author looks down and sees one of his SEAL-Grunts with an inquisitive look in its black, beady eyes.

"We get cheesecake and lemonade, now?"

"When we get back to the ship, yeah." The two Grunts erupt into squeaky cheers and they jabber happily to each other about the prospect of the delicious goodies waiting for them. As the two SEAL-Grunts are picked up, the author disappears in a column of light.

After a blinding flash of light, he reappears aboard the _In Amber Clad_. Unfortunately, he's landed himself back in the hangar bay. Fortunately, however, it appears that Keyes got tired of waiting for him and has already returned to the bridge. Unfortunately, at that moment, the ship leaves Slipspace; the _In Amber Clad_ immediately decelerates and sends the author flying into a bulkhead with a canned "Wilhelm" scream.

The author groans as he picks himself up off the deck. "_Owww_...just my frackin' luck. I guess that's my cue!" The author breaks out a strange set of communications equipment and makes contact. "Hello, Actual? _Tora_ here. Are you in position?" He pauses, listening to a response unheard by the filming crew's recording equipment. "Uh-huh. I need a ride. By the way, is my Zaku ready? I see. Position yourselves as you see fit. Avoid contact as much as possible - and _stay the hell away from that ring_. Understand? Good. _Tora_ out." The author kills the connection and destroys the communications equipment. "Let's get this show on the road," he murmurs to nobody in particular. Not counting the cameras.

To be continued...

**Author's Note**: Wow. I'm amazed I managed to crank out this chapter. Sorry if it's lame, but my memory of _Halo 2_'s campaign is starting to go - especially since I have a crapload of other, more important, school-related things to remember. By the end of the semester, I will probably have forgotten a lot of what happens in _Halo 2_'s campaign. While I do refer to a script on to double-check the lines and story, it is not good enough for what I'm doing. I think I have to borrow my friend's XBox and copy of _Halo 2_, again. Hahaha.

Anyway...sorry if the story is starting to suck. _Hopefully,_ the return of the mobile suits will make things better. Yes, there will be more MS action. And to make a tardy reply to a reviewer's question: don't count the master of Chuck-Fu out, just yet. Ripping off of MacArthur: "he shall return!"

By the way, if any of you don't know, "_tora_" is Japanese for "tiger." Yes. Lame callsign, I know. _Bite me_.

Tiger Tank


	6. Delta Halo

Delta Halo and Regret (Or: The One Ring TO RULE THEM ALL!) 

The camera gives us a view of a boring patch of space. A bright flash of light suddenly makes things interesting, and a massive, glowy Slipspace rupture appears. The silvery-purple, cetecean-esque Covenant carrier takes off like a bullet, heading off the camera's field of vision. Pieces of New Mombasa also appear, tumbling and rotating on their collective axes. Finally, the In Amber Clad exits the Slipspace rupture and the portal closes behind the sleek UNSC warship.

Commander Miranda Keyes grunts as the ship suddenly decelerates, throwing her against her seat's restraints. She gazes out at the debris taken from the Earth city and mutters, "I guess they wanted some souvenirs, while they were at it." The brunette furtively glances at the camera and spots the little red light that indicates that it's recording. "Oh, shit! Er...I mean...report!"

"Both engine cores have spun to 'zero', ma'am," the navigation tech reports, "we're drifting."

"Archer pods're cold - I'll need to rekey the system," the weapons tech adds. "Fine, " Keyes sighs as she turns to address the navigation tech, "and find out where we are, would you?"

"Aye-aye, ma'am!"

In the hangar, Johnson - who is waiting outside of his docked Pelican - walks over to the author, "you all right? That looked pretty painful."

"Meh, I'm fine," the author replies. "I've had worse."

"_Johnson_," Keyes's voice suddenly cut in through the non-com's radio, "_sorry for the quick jump. You all right?_"

"I'm good," the dark-skinned sergeant replies. "How about you, Chief?"

"_We're fine_," Cortana answers for the Spartan. Snoozing, he mumbles something in his sleep - unfortunately for him and everyone else, the Chief is inadvertently broadcasting what he's saying on all the UNSC frequencies. "_...I wanna ride the pony..._" he moans. The author shakes his head as he checks his chronometer. "I'd better get going," he says before disappearing in a column of light.

"Ma'am! There's...an object. Coming about for a visual...now."

"That's a huge onion ring," the commander gapes in awe. "Cortana, what'm I looking at?" Orbiting a blue-and-green-and-white planet is...

"That_ would be another Halo,_" the AI replies. Indeed, the massive, majestic ring-world can be seen spinning about as it orbits the unnamed planet that is like Earth with its green landmasses, blue oceans, and white clouds. Or maybe the seas are green and the vegetation on the landmasses are blue.

"_**GET ON WITH IT!**_" everyone, including the Covenant, screams at the author. The author then decides to move the story along.

"Say _what?_" Shocked, Johnson spits out the cigar he's just chomping down on. The Chief, however, remains asleep, now murmuring something about ants in his pants.

"So this is what my father found," Keyes murmurs, "I thought Halo was some sort of super-weapon? It looks more like a giant, gray 'Funyun' chip or something."

"Yes, it is a super-weapon. If activated, this thing would cause destruction on a galactic scale! There would be no more _Starbucks_ coffee houses, _Jamba Juice_ stores, or _Best Buys_."

"I want all the information you have on the first Halo, Cortana," says Keyes, "schematics, topography, _whatever_. I don't give a shit about security clearance."

"Um...are you sure?" Cortana inquires.

"_Yes, I'm frickin' sure!_ Now give me the data!"

"Yes, ma'am..."

Far away, on a UNSC outpost, an alarm goes off. A junior officer looks over a readout and reports to his senior officer, "_sir!_ We've got a Code 23-19 aboard the _In Amber Clad_!"

"A 23-19, eh?" the grizzled, beady-eyed superior asks. "_Haxing teh intarwebs and taking megahurts without security clearance!_ Ready a strike team, son! We'll be 'neutralizing' anyone and everyone aboard that ship."

"McRuff _KILL_!" bellows a familiar-looking dog dressed in a trench coat. The dog is foaming at the mouth at the prospect of a hunt.

The senior officer gives a nod of approval, "that's the spirit, old buddy."

Suddenly, the outpost is hit by a number of brilliant, blue-white beams of energy that lance through the station. The station turns into a fireball, disintegrating in the explosion. A small flotilla of four, red, bulky-looking ships suddenly disappears into Slipspace.

Back aboard the In Amber Clad, the commander asks, "where's Regret's carrier?"

"Stopped above the ring, ma'am. We're going to pass right over it."

"Good," Keyes nods, "given what we know about the ring, it's important that we capture the Prophet of Regret and find out why he came to Earth. And why he came here. Chief?"

No reply. Only snoring.

"Chief?"

"_I dun' like that one! I wanna wear the purple tutu_," the Spartan whines, still asleep.

"_GODDAMMIT, CHIEF! WAKE UP!_"

"Huh? Buh? Whuzzah?" The Chief tilts his helmet, emptying the brain bucket of the saliva that's been collecting in there. "Wha's going on?"

"_Chief, I want you to take your mobile suit and support first platoon as they make a hard drop onto the ring's surface to secure an LZ._"

"Oh. Okay." The green-armored super-soldier pauses, "wait...what ring?"

"_The Halo we just found!_" Keyes exclaims irritably, "_weren't you paying_ attention?"

"Another one?" Collapsing onto the deck, the Spartan lets out an effeminate moan, "_another Halo_?"

"_Yes, Chief_," the commander sighs, irritated at the Spartan's idiocy. "_Sergeant, I want you to load up two flights of Pelicans and follow them in. Also, the author requested that you get some good footage..._"

"Yeah, yeah," Johnson says dismissively, "I got it."

"_Until I can move in and fight, I'm going to keep a low profile._" Keyes almost sounds apologetic, "_once you guys leave the ship, you're on your own._"

"Understood," the Chief states, "I accept the mission."

"_Approaching target_," one of the techs report.

"_Get to your mobile suit, Chief!_"

"Yes, ma'am!" The Chief trots over to a massive flatbed with a huge tarp covering it. He removes the tarp and gasps in surprise at what he finds beneath it. "I don't believe this! When did we start producing GINNs?"

"We didn't," Cortana says pointedly. "There's a note on the cockpit hatch." The Chief seizes the paper duct-taped to the olive-drab-painted ZGMF-1017 GINN OCHER-type's cockpit hatch and reads it aloud, "'_Dear Chief, I figured that this would come in handy for you. I know you don't especially care for the Leos or the GMs, so I transferred this _GINN_ to the_ In Amber Clad _while you were duking it out with Chuck Norris. Don't worry if it gets trashed. Signed: Tiger Tank._'"

"That's rather nice of him," Cortana muses, "but why did he say that last part?"

"I don't know," Spartan-117 replies, "but I've got a bad feeling about--"

"Pardon me, good sir, but I believe _I_ created that line," states a young, cross-looking Obi-Wan Kenobi, "therefore, you are in breach of--" the Jedi master is suddenly bitchslapped by the Chief so hard that his head rotates around completely, snapping his spine in the process, effectively killing the Jedi. Then, the Chief jumps into the GINN and maneuvers the suit towards the hangar bay doors.

In moments, the GINN and a number of HEVs filled with Orbital Drop Shock Troopers descend toward the ring's surface, followed by the Pelicans under Johnson's command. And for no reason at all, the _Lord of the Rings_ theme is playing. Somehow, the music seems to fit, at least in the author's crazed mind.

On the ring's surface, a sharp-eyed Jackal spots the HEVs coming down and orders a Grunt to man a nearby Shade turret. The little midget huffs as it hurries to the weapon emplacement and hops into the gunner's seat. Crimson plasma bolts criss-cross across the sky, trying desperately to hit the oncoming re-entry vehicles. Just then, the GINN touches down, squashing and destroying a Shade turret and its gunner. Shocked at the appearance of this new mobile suit, the Grunts and Jackals pause long enough for the Chief to destroy the rest of the Shade turrets along with their helpless gunners.

"_Could we _possibly _make any more noise_?" Cortana inquires in the Chief's helmet. In reply, the Chief maneuvers the GINN so that it stows its massive assault rifle on its rear skirt armor and whips out an even bigger recoil-less rifle. "_I guess so_," the AI answers her own question. "_Artillery has been disabled, Sergeant. The landing-zone is secured..._" Cortana pauses, "_for the moment._"

The Master Chief aims at an ancient, moss-covered structure that the Covenant scum were taking cover in and fires. The warhead flies through the doorway and into the structure. Flames, bodies and debris fly out of the newly-cleared structure. Surprisingly (or maybe "not-so-surprisingly"), the structure remains standing, although the interior is severely blackened. A signature suddenly appears on his mobile suit's sensors and the Chief barks, "_Marines! Secure the building! We've got an incoming Covenant dropship!_"

"_Aye-aye, Chief!_" The ODSTs obey and secure the structures, peering through the windows and waiting. After a few minutes, a Phantom dropship arrives, gun turrets blazing. Before it can drop off its cargo of troops, however, the Chief blows it out of the sky with the GINN's huge bazooka. The burning frame of the ship plummets down into the sea, with flaming pieces of debris following suit.

"Hold here until the Pelican arrives, Chief."

"Roger."

In moments, a Pelican dropship flies in and drops off an M808B Scorpion light tank. The ODSTs pile aboard the armored beast, and the Chief follows the tank as it rumbles up a path. "_I got a good look on the way in," Johnson says, "there's a big building in the middle of the lake. I think there's a party going on in there._"

"_I saw it, too,_" Cortana replies, "_it looks like a temple, though it's rather unusual for them to be getting drunk off their asses and getting high in a 'sacred' place like that. Even so, if I were a stoner or a raver - and I'm _not_ - that's probably where I'd be._"

"Cortana, what's that?" The Chief aims his GINN's bazooka at a fortified bunker, looking through the weapon's scope-camera. A pair of Shade turrets and a few patrolling Ghosts guard the bunker. "Scanning." After a few moments, the AI replies, "it's a control center to extend a bridge to the other side of this canyon. We need to--"

"Yeah, yeah." The Master Chief looses a bazooka round at the Shade turrets, horribly owning them, along with any nearby Covenant, in a fiery explosion of doom. The nearby Ghosts, piloted by Elites, charge at the towering mobile suit. Unfortunately for them, they don't see the Scorpion tank at the GINN's feet - a few well-placed shots from the tank's cannon either destroy or flip over the Ghosts, taking care of them for the moment.

The Chief advances, stowing the GINNs bazooka on its back and taking up the assault rifle. After essentially vaporizing a few remaining Jackals, Cortana reports, "better get inside, Chief. We need to get to the controls and extend the bridge."

"Right." The Spartan opens the GINN's cockpit hatch and is lowered by the integrated winch system. Submachineguns in hand, the Chief goes into the bunker, followed by the ODSTs sitting on the Scorpion's track pods. After a sweep and clear, the Master Chief intuitively pushes a button on the bridge's controller, extending said bridge across the gap.

"Good, the bridge is down," Cortana reports, "but there're Wraiths on the other side, waiting for you."

"Wraiths? I didn't see any--" an explosion rocks the building, making everyone inside stagger. "_Marines! Get back to the tank!_" Without even an acknowledgement, the ODSTs run for the parked Scorpion tank. The Chief runs for his mobile suit...and gapes as it is knocked off the cliff by a lucky shot by the Wraiths. In slow-motion, the GINN falls down, down, down until it finally hits the ground and explodes.

"It seems," says Cortana, "that in your stupidity and lack of 1337 skillz, you effectively trashed your own ride."

The camera zooms out as the Chief throws his hands and face toward the heavens, crying out with the horribly cliche: "**_NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!_**"

"_Totally_ ripping on my movie," George Lucas grumbles. "_Revenge of the Sith_ is the bestest _Star Wars_ movie, _**evar!**_"

"_Dude_!" the author exclaims. "Do you realize how _cheesy_ the dialogue was? Even though I didn't think it possible, it was worse than the crappy lines in _Attack of the Clones_ - and that movie was pretty bad! And Anakin's weak 'NNNOOOOOoooo!' at the end? That was like the cherry on the sundae!"

"Mmmm, _sundae!_" the SEAL-Grunt operating the camera licks his lips. "Me _like_ sundae!"

"_Hey!_ You're supposed to be filming the Chief!" The author looks around. "Where'd he go?"

The Chief, the tank, and the four ODSTs are gone - the driver of said tank is sitting on the grass, rubbing the back of his neck. On the other side of the bridge, there's a swath of destruction - the flaming wrecks of Banshees, Ghosts, and the Wraiths can be seen littering the landscape.

"Oh." The author sighs, "let's _roll!_" A rounded, somewhat hemispherical ship arrives; blood-red and crimson paint covers most of the ship's gray hull. A hatch on the side opens, and the author and his filming crew clamber aboard the ship - a modified "_Worker_" class vessel (from the game _Homeworld: Cataclysm_), at least twice the size of a Pelican dropship and still quite maneuverable.

"Pilot! Let's head for that structure in the lake."

"Aye-aye, sir!" the female pilot answers enthusiastically. Onboard the resource-gatherer-turned-shuttle, two SEAL-Grunt teams are strapped in, as well as a pair of weapons racks running along either side of the vessel's walls. The author walks up to the weapon rack and starts musing over his choices, like a child looking around in a candy store. "Hmmm...eenie, meenie..."

By the time the Chief reaches the gondolas, his ODSTs have been replaced with a handful of regular UNSC Marines - the former were killed off shortly after the Wraiths by the bridge had been dealt with. Of course, the latter is immediately killed off by a pair of angry Hunters, just dropped from a Phantom dropship. The Chief dodges and continues to wildly fire at the Hunters. Unfortunately, his submachineguns lack both accuracy and stopping power (due to the smaller ammunition) to put down the ugly, alien behemoths.

The Spartan chucks his submachineguns at the Hunter bull-charging him, and the bullets barely scratch the alien's massive, dense shield. Out of options, the Master Chief whips out the Mighty Smiting Bat and clocks the Hunter in the head with a vicious, overhand swing. The beast topples onto its side, groaning. Its bond-brother lets out a roar of fury and starts blazing away at the Chief with its Fuel Rod Gun.

The Chief, using the Bat like a lightsaber, deflects the projectiles, but is knocked off his feet and onto his butt by the explosions. Before he can recover, the Hunter charges and swings its shield, knocking the Mighty Smiting Bat out of his hands and into the depths. "I'm boned!" The Chief screams in a shrill falsetto as the Hunter prepares to deliver the coup de grace.

The Hunter is suddenly turned into a giant, orange smear and a pair of armored legs as something huge flies overhead and knocks the alien's entire torso off. "What the...?" The Chief looks off in the direction the thing had flown in and spots a ship turning on its axis and heading toward him. As the ship hovers, a figure, clad in a purple uniform with a heavy overcoat and a green-visored helmet (Sardaukar!), hops out with a mini-  
cam and other compact recording equipment on his shoulders. As the ship flies off to orbit around the edges of the lake, the Master Chief studies the newcomer carefully.

"_Author?_"

"Yeah. How do you like the new look?" The author does a pirouette, making the Master Chief's eye twitch uncontrollably beneath his helmet. "I'm actually wearing powered armor under this overcoat, though. I personally like the 'Sardaukar' look."

"Where's your filming crew?"

"On that ship you just saw. They're going to be getting some external shots of the lake structures."

The Master Chief and Cortana merely shrug inwardly as they board the gondola full of Covenant troops.

"The Demon!" one of the Elites yell obnoxiously. "_Kill him!_" The unarmed Spartan pounds a fist into the palm of the other hand as the author draws a shining blade and a weapon that looks a lot like a Clone trooper blaster carbine. The Master Chief cracks open a few skulls and farts to kill off an Elite that was sneaking up behind him. The author, on the other hand, preys upon the Jackals and the Grunts, slashing at them with his knife and frying them with shots from his lasgun.

When the carnage is over, the pair starts trying to get the gondola to move.

"_Dammit_, which one moved this stupid thing?" the author grumbles as he systematically tries pressing buttons on a control panel. "I swear, I think there was a bug with the triggers on this part of the mission."

"Here!" The Chief presses a button and the gondola starts moving toward the structure in the center of the lake. A swarm of flying monkeys...er.  
I mean, _Covenant Drones_ swoop in and start attacking the moving gondola. In his throne room, Regret cackles like the wicked witch of the west, "Fly! Fly, my pretties! _EEHHH-HEHEHEHEEEEEE!_" The SEAL-Grunts filming the apparently demented High Prophet exchange frightened looks before scurrying out of the room as fast as their little legs can carry them.

The Master Chief whips out his submachineguns again and starts spraying indiscriminately at the cloud of flitting, chirping insectoids. Green plasma bolts and lightish-red needler projectiles rain around the two humans, blackening the burnished alloy of the gondola. "HAHAHAHA! DIE! _DIE!_" the Chief screams maniacally as more Drone bodies drop either onto the gondola's deck or into the lake. The author remains in the enclosed section of the gondola, firing his lasgun through what pass for windows.

Suddenly, the gondola stops halfway to the other side. "We've got company," the author states unnecessarily; the Chief is already sighting the oncoming gondola through the scope of a sniper rifle. As the other gondola stops right next to their own, a horde of energy-sword-wielding Covenant Elites make like stereotypical pirates, leaping aboard. Some swing in by ropes attached to who-knows-what. Ranger Elites fly around like irritating gnats with their jetpacks that never seem to need refueling. For some strange reason, they are the only ones with plasma rifles.

"YARRRR! GIVE US YOUR TREASURE!" a pirate Elite, this one wearing an eyepatch, growls menacingly. A Ranger Elite adds, "you are hopelessly outmatched! Surrender or _die_!"

"You don't _need_ to see our identification," the author not-so-subtly waves his gauntleted hand.

"_Identification_?" the Elite cocks his head sideways. "I didn't ask..."

"We're not the ones you're looking for."

"You're not? But we have orders to kill the Demon, and he's _standing right there_!"

"We can go about our business."

"_No you can't!_" the visibly irritated Elite pirate leader exclaims, "we're going to _kill_ you and take all of your stuff, you _smartass_!"

"Damn," the author murmurs to the Master Chief, "it worked in the last fic."

"What, d'you think you're some kind of Jedi or something?"

"_**DIE!**_"

At once, the tide of Elites surge forward and attack the two humans. The Master Chief starts off by killing off a row of Elites by emptying the sniper rifle's magazine at them, the rounds overpenetrating and going through the lot of them, then hurling the depleted weapon like a javelin and putting it through another Elite's skull. Then he busts out his crazy martial-arts skills, slaughtering the Elites and killing them in ways that shall be left to the readers' potentially horrible imaginations. The author, on the other hand, has already killed the Range Elite leader with a kick to the alien's snout. He continues slashing and blasting away, but is eventually overwhelmed. In a last ditch effort, he jumps off the gondola in what appears to be a suicide attempt. Puzzled, the Covenant rush to the side and look over the side. Seeing no trace of the author, the Covenant gibber excitedly to one another.

"Hahahahaha! The coward did not wish to stand against us!" one of the Elites crow. Said Elite is immediately turned into a bloody pile of goop, courtesy of a few dozen mass-driver slugs. A vaguely insectoid Somtaaw Acolyte hovers into view as the author hops from the top of the advanced fighter and slaps a fresh charge into his lasgun. "Thanks for the save," he radios to the pilot of the deep-red-on-red Acolyte. "Any chance you could help us clean up?"

"No problem, sir." The Pelican-sized fighter fires its chin-mounted mass-drivers at the Elites, easily shorting out their shields and turning them into hamburger. The Master Chief watches in awe while ripping a fart to finish off the last of the Elite raiders. "Thanks again!" the author waves the fighter off. As the ship flies off, it waggles in the air before the two cylindrical structures on its sides retract to lay flush with the hull, making the ship appear more compact.

"What was that?" the Chief gapes.

"You may find out later," the author replies cryptically. "Let's get that douchebag Prophet and make him 'regret' fucking with Earth."

After a long bout of wholesale slaughter, the sodomizing of a Hunter pair by the Chief, and the loss of reinforcement Marines who lasted all of ten glorious seconds against Elites, the duo finally arrives at the ramp preceding Regret's throne room. And the massive rave-party going on inside. The rhythmic, basso, booming of music can be heard, as well as the cheers of the Covenant partying it up inside. Even through the filters of his helmet, the author can smell what could only be the pungent smoke of some burning, illegal substances.

"Sounds like one hell of a party," the Chief grins behind his faceshield, looking forward to the prospect of scoring; then grimaces, remembering that the only females in attendance would most likely be aliens. If there were even any females in the Covenant's military ranks. The Spartan is brought back to reality as the author punches him on the shoulder, saying, "gear up. You're probably going to need it." The Chief clips an energy sword hilt to his belt and picks out a pair of fresh plasma rifles. The author quickly double checks his weaponry and heaves a sigh as he discards his lasgun. He breaks open one of the Covenant supply containers and finds a plasma cannon inside. Hefting the weapon, he turns to the Chief.

"Right, then! You ready?"

The Master Chief has already charged into the throne-room-turned-dance-hall, screaming things along the lines of, "**_DIE, COVENANT SCUM!_**" at the top of his lungs. The author thinks for a moment, stiffens as he visibly (or "not-so-visibly" due to the helmet and faceshield) remembers something, and teleports out of the structure.

Meanwhile, the Master Chief has already weakened Regret's shields and is wailing on the Prophet with a depleted plasma rifle. Regret's shrill screams of pain are seemingly ignored by most of the Covenant in the throne room, who are too wasted to remember what they are supposed to be doing. Either that, or the Chief killed them. Finally, the Spartan caves Regret's skull in, leaving the weak Prophet in a pool of his own blood. However, Regret still manages to push the "**SELF-DESTRUCT**" button that is on his hover-chair, perilously close to the "**ORDER PIZZA**" button. How Regret hasn't managed to inadvertently blow the place up, beforehand, the author won't bother explaining. Stupid author.

"Shut _up_, narrator!" the author snaps from the cargo bay of the "_Worker_" class vessel he teleported aboard. "Now get on with it!"

Why do I even bother? I'm not getting paid for this gig.

"Oh, quit your bitchin'!"

No.

The entire cast roars: "**_GET ON WITH IT!_**"

Oh, fine!

A massive Covenant fleet - visible as tiny, lavender blips in the sky - suddenly arrives from Slipspace as the Master Chief hurries outside to wait for a Pelican to show up. But, the Covenant cruiser looming overhead starts powering up its weapons; thinking fast, the Spartan runs for the edge of the massive platform and swan-dives off the edge. The Chief hits the water, spared any serious harm thanks to his armor's shielding system.

"_Made it_," the Spartan sighs. Suddenly, a massive, trunk-like tentacle wraps itself around him and he starts shrieking shrilly like a little girl. A loud, basso voice rumbles in the Chief's ear, "**you an' me are gonna have a good time, baby**."

"I don't wanna be _tentacle-raped!_" The voice only chuckles in a way that makes the unfortunate Spartan shudder. He lets out a scream as the tentacle starts rubbing his thigh with fervor - a scream that would have made a person's ears bleed after two seconds of listening to it. Kind of like the English dubbed voices of _Ranma 1/2_.

In space, the author stands on the bridge of his flagship - a massive, heavily armed and armored mining vessel and warship with its name painted on its hull in bold, white letters: "PERDITION'S FLAME." The modified, dark-red-on-red Explorer-class vessel boasts six energy cannon turrets and its cavernous hangar space is reserved for its rather small complement of fighters and its nine mobile suits. The _Perdition's Flame_ is guarded by two massive carriers; four, familiar, bulky-looking destroyer vessels; and four frigates that are dwarfed by the other ships in the fleet. A squad of heavily armed ZGMF-1017 GINN mobile suits hover around the massive ship, one of them carrying a recoil-less rifle.

Suddenly, another four destroyers exit Slipspace behind the _Perdition's Flame_ and take up positions next to the other destroyers. The author opens up a communications link and a young man's face appears on the screen. "Were you successful in defusing the situation, Commander?" the author inquires.

"_Yes, sir!_" the officer on-screen replies. "_The target was destroyed just as the signal reached the station._"

"Well done, Commander. I'm thankful that you got here in a timely manner. Maintain position and stand by for further orders."

"_Yes, sir. Thank you, sir._" The connection terminates and the author calls up the tactical command center on the ship.

"_Tactical,_" a young woman's voice answers.

"Bridge. How many Covenant ships arrived with that planetoid?"

"_Too many to engage, sir. Our advantage of superior weaponry and defensive technology is severely diminished by their sheer numbers._"

"I see..." the author nods, "thank you for confirming that for me, Lieutenant."

"_Aye, sir._"

"One more thing: send a _Leech_ in to tap into the planetoid's systems. See what we can dig up."

"_Aye, sir._"

After terminating the connection, the author rubs his chin. "Things're gonna get a little ugly..."

Aboard _High Charity_, which is surrounded by countless Covenant war vessels, Mercy growls at the holographic image of the author's fleet. "What does that human scum think he's doing? It's bad enough that he desecrates the _Sacred Ring_ and allows the other humans to do so - but now he brings his own ships! This is unacceptable! We should eliminate him and that collection of scrap he calls a fleet!"

"He is not a fool," Truth lisps. "He is at the edge of our sensor range and does not pose any immediate threat to us - if he could even be remotely considered a threat at all. He knows he does not stand a chance, so he will keep his battlegroup away from the Sacred Ring. If he fails to respect the terms our cease-fire agreement, then we will _burn_ his pathetic fleet."

"Yes! Burn! **_BURN!_** _AH-HAHAHAHA!_" Mercy cackles maniacally for a second then murmurs, "his ships are _red_. Like _fire_. Fire is _pretty_..."

"Yes, yes. Now shut up, you crazed _pyromaniac_, and play with your zippo lighter."

"**_BUUUUUURRRRRRNNNNNN!_**"

To be continued...

Author's Notes

Well, that was rather lengthy. Yes, I play Homeworld: Cataclysm. It's fun. I especially like the idea of commanding large groups of capital ships. A slow, sure juggernaut of immense strength to steam-roll the opposition. Until I run into enemies that overpower me. Then I'm screwed. Haha. Anyway, I hope the fic was a little enjoyable.

Tiger Tank


	7. The Sacred Icon

The Sacred Icon and Quarantine Zone (Or: The Recycle Bin)

In the antechamber leading to the main audience hall of the Hierarchs, the Arbiter passes a rather unsettling scene. The crimson-armored Elite honor guards are seen relinquishing their arms and helmets to the Brutes. The Covenant bitch-boy suppresses the murderous urges that boil beneath his indifferent exterior as he sees a Brute tear an honor-guard helmet from the hands of a defeated-looking Elite. Clenching his fists to keep his ire in check, the Arbiter almost scrambles down the wall past a pair of Brute guards that are quarrelling over a helmet.

"Dis one'z _mine!_"

"I'm bigga, so I'z da boss o' you, _runt_! An' I sez dis iz _my_ helmet!"

The argument turns violent just as the Arbiter enters the audience chamber. The silver-armored Elite spots the Spec-Ops Commander and a contingent of other Elites speaking to the Hierarchs.

"This is unprecedented!" the commander whines, "_unacceptable_!"

"A Hierarch is _dead_, commander," Truth lisps, "thanks to the incompetence of the so-called 'Elites'. _Pah_! You're a bunch of n00b _lamers_."

"_STFU_! His murderer was within our grasp! What does this have to do with the Brutes taking over as the Honor Guard?"

"_OMG U N00B WHOR DONT TELL ME TO STFU, SO STFU! **BAN!**_" Truth stops the conversation and curtly dismisses the Elites. As the Spec-Ops commander passes, he winks at the Arbiter and brushes the back of his hand against the Arbiter's thigh. Someone clears his throat impatiently, making the errand boy break eye contact with the Spec-Ops commander.

Briefly, the Arbiter's eyes fall upon the author, who's waiting off to the side, leaning against the bulkhead with his arms crossed. An entire filming crew and set have been assembled in the audience chamber.

"Get _on_ with it!" the author hisses. The Arbiter walks up to the Hierarchs, and Truth shoots a glare at the retreating backs of the Spec-Ops commander and his retinue. "Politics," the Prophet mutters. "Did you know, Arbiter, that the Elites threatened to _resign_? To leave the High Council? When it was learned that the Brutes were replacing the Elites as honor guards?"

"The Elites have always protected the Hierarchs."

"These are trying times for all of us," Truth sighs and pauses. After waiting for a moment, he turns angrily to Mercy and snaps, "_SAY YOUR LINE, FOOL!_" The Hierarch diverts his attention away his zippo lighter, which he has been fiddling around with while staring vacantly into the flame.

"Uh...what was my line?"

"_IDIOT!_" Truth screams. This is promptly followed up by a long string of curses and profanities, along with speculation of Mercy's intelligence, habits, and likely future. The author storms over and snatches the lighter out of Mercy's hand, extinguishing the flame as he does so, "you're not getting it back until you say your line." With that, he stalks away and holds the lighter over an open garbage disposal chute, making as though to drop it down the chute.

"Er..." a bead of sweat runs down the Prophet's snail-like face, "even as...uh...the annihilation of the humans filled us with...jubilation...no, I meant _satisfaction_!...ah...the destruction of one of the Sacred Rings..._wracked-our-hearts-with-grief!_" Mercy babbles this last part, holding his hands out for his zippo. The author fakes a drop, chuckling evilly at the Prophet's crestfallen expression, then returns the lighter to Mercy. The prophet rubs his face against the smooth surface of the lighter and mutters, "my _precioussss..._"

Truth continues, ignoring the exchange, "putting aside our sorrow, we renewed our faith in the prophecy that said that other rings would be found!"

"_Yes!_" Mercy raises his spindly arms as if in exultation, his lighter in hand, "through our patience and perserverance, the Gods have led us to another _Halo_! Can I get an '_amen_!', my brothers and sisters?" Nobody indulges him, however - they're all too busy staring at the old coot with dumbfounded expressions. The wrinkly snail ignites his lighter and starts waving it around like a maniac. Or a hippie.

"Erm...," Truth sputters, eyeing the zippo in his "brother's" hand. "For ages, we searched for one who might unlock the secrets of The Ring - an Oracle. And with your help, Arbiter, we found it!" A holotank activates, and the image of an elderly black woman appears.

"_You crazy motherfuckers!_" screams the Oracle, her voice somewhat distorted , "_why is it that you freaks are always so obsessed with my_ eyes?"

"That's...the _Oracle_?" the silver-armored Elite quizzically cocks his head sideways. "I _thought_...?"

"What? What're you talking about?" Truth turns and looks at the Oracle, before chuckling nervously, "_oops_!" The tube containing the black woman disappears into concealment and another tube pops out, holding none other than 343 Guilty Spark. "_Hello!_" chirps the floating blue lightbulb.

"With appropriate humility," Mercy says with barely contained excitement, "we plied the Oracle with our questions - and with great grace and clarity, has shown us the key."

Truth gestured out the viewport at the Halo, "Arbiter, you shall journey down to the surface of the Sacred Ring and retrieve this Sacred Icon. With it, we shall fulfill our promise."

"Salvation for all! HALLELUJAH!" Mercy cries out, thrusting his arms into the air.

"And the beginning of the Great Journey," Truth finishes quietly. The two Hierarchs stare at the Arbiter, who blankly stares right back at them. After a moment, the Arbiter seems to convulse before remembering himself.

"Oooooohhh, a _quest!_" the Arbiter squeals in excitement. "Oh man, I gotta put together a party! Okay, okay, who can I take with me?"

The Hierarchs exchange confused glances before having the Arbiter dragged down to the Phantom dropship waiting in one of numerous hangar bays. The Arbiter continues to ramble in the cargo hold, with only the author and a small SEAL-Grunt team to listen.

"We need a cleric! I don't know how to heal. I can be the powerful and intelligent wizard, though!"

"_By the Forerunner, _**SHUT THE HELL UP!**" Tartarus bellows over the Phantom's intercom. "_This isn't a _game_, you nerd!_"

"_Tartarus! Can _you_ be the healer?_"

The simian alien groans in frustration and starts slamming his pugnacious face into the ship's control panel. The Brute copilot looks on in utter confusion, but makes no move to stop the chieftain from bashing the crap out of his own skull and the control panel.

Upon arriving at the Library, the Arbiter is dumped face-first into the metal alloy floor of an outcropping, without the assistance of a gravity lift. Groaning, his face is forced back down into the floor as the SEAL-Grunts descend and land on the back of his helmeted head. A final, considerably heavier impact on the Arbiter's head signals the descent of the author.

"On alert, comrades!" the author barks to his Grunts, "the enemy must be nearby!" There is an audible series of metallic clicks and snaps as the SEAL-Grunts lock-and-load their MP5Ks, each Grunt finishing his preparations with an HK-slap. The author gives an involuntary shudder as he hears the collection of sounds. "Cool," he mutters to himself.

Not a second later, a massive Enforcer drone looms overhead, its mono-eye glaring down at the small group.

"_**Crush. Hug. Smother,**_" the chrome robot drones in a menacing, basso monotone as it prepares to swoop down upon them with its dangling arms - arms that are more than capable of utterly destroying a heavily armored Scorpion tank. In the nick of time, a salvo of red energy bolts splash across the 'bot's gleaming surface, redirecting its attention. Tartarus's Phantom flies away with the big Enforcer in hot pursuit, the latter chanting, "_**hug! Hug! Hug!**_" the entire way.

"What in the name of the Forerunner was that thing?" the Arbiter inquires as he wipes the drool from his mandibles. "It was _shiny_!"

"It was an Enforcer Drone," the author replies, "and yes, it was quite shiny, wasn't it?"

"_Shiny!_" the SEAL-Grunts bark in unison.

"_Lower the shield, Arbiter!_" Tartarus orders over the radio. "_I'll pick you up when you finish. Wait, what the--!_"

"**Hug. Hug. Hug. Hug,**" the Enforcer-'bot chants in the background over the sound of squealing and crunching metal.

The Brute crew aboard the dropship screams over the communications channel, before it all dissolves into static.

"Well, _that's_ reassuring," the author sighs. Slowly, he draws his combat knife and lasgun before signalling his SEAL-Grunts to advance.

"What?" asks errand boy. "You obviously escaped from that mining station, alive, didn't you? What makes this any different?"

"I don't think my retrieval boat can extract us while under fire. Even if there were a fighter escort, those Enforcers would probably go straight for the sitting duck." The author pauses and slaps his the front of his helmet. "Of course! I forgot about the mobile suits. I'll just have to have a carrier standing by."

"O-kay." The Arbiter spasms uncontrollably for a second. "What shall I do?"

"Let's just move in. I'll call in a carrier group as we go along."

Not long after, the intrepid group meets up with a ragged team of Grunts and a Jackal, whom were busy hiding and wetting themselves when they should have been fighting. "Arbiter!" one of the Grunts squeal. "It the Arbiter! We fight with you!" Out of seemingly nowhere, a horde of Sentinel bitch-'bots swoop in and start firing their lasers at the group.

"_Meep!_" The Grunt that had just pledged loyalty to the Arbiter suddenly runs into a corner and soils his armor, sobbing and baying in terror as his teammates get cut up into charred bits of meat. Some of the SEAL-Grunts take hits, firing even as they go down. The author, spotting the cowering Grunt, levels his lasgun at the alien and blasts its head off. "_Stand your ground!_" the author shouts, his voice amplified by his helmet's vocoder. "Cowards die in _shame!_"

After blasting another Sentinel, the author looks around for the next spot they need to get to. It was highly unlikely that the tide of Sentinels would stop anytime soon, and they would eventually be overwhelmed - they needed to move on. "This way!" he shouts, pointing the way with his blade. The survivors disengage and run onward, avoiding being tied up in any one battle for too long.

It continues this way for a long time as the team guns-and-runs through Flood zombies, hug-happy Enforcers, and irritating Sentinels. Many of the author's SEAL-Grunts fall, sometimes unable to keep up. By the time they reach the Elite encampment, the formerly twenty-strong group has been reduced to a quarter of that number.

Upon their arrival, they see the Flood besetting a handful of Elites that are attempting to hold off the attack. Despite their energy shielding and Shade turret emplacements, the outcome of the battle seems uncertain. Howling and screeching, the zombie combat forms hurl themselves at the Elites, falling by the dozens - and yet, for every combat form that falls, two more seem to take its place. Panting for breath, the author points at the besieged Elites' position and bellows, "**chaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrge!**"

The Arbiter draws his energy sword and ignites it with a loud "_pop!_" The Elite charges in and joins his brethren in the fray, with the author and his Grunts struggling through the snow to keep up. Slashing, kicking, punching, the Elites fight like the cornered animals they are, against the seemingly unending tides of Flood combat forms and the occasional carrier form. The ground around the combatants turns into frigid mud, the crunching of the snow and ice barely audible above the din of the melee. Bodies of the fallen lay in the muck, dismembered or disfigured in some manner.

In seconds, the SEAL-Grunts arrive, firing their MP5K submachineguns at the Flood. At the same time, the influx of Flood seems to slow. The author, taking advantage of this lapse, contacts his carrier group. "Hammer Two! Hammer Two, come in! This is Tiger."

"_We read you, sir,_" an older man's voice replies.

"Good! Status, Captain?"

"_No-go, sir. The Covenant won't let anything bigger than a Deacon-class ship close with the ring._"

"Shit!" the author gasps as a Flood combat form whacks him in the side with its tentacle, knocking the wind out of him. Falling onto his side, he fires his lasgun at the zombie, burning a hole into the creature's thoracic cavity, killing the infection form within. In-between coughing fits, he continues, "is there any way we can get the mobile suits in and out of the ring's atmosphere without the carrier?"

"_Yes, sir. The engineers aboard the _Flame_ have been working on an inter-atmospheric mobile suit carrier that can carry a full squad. It'll be the size of a frigate, so--_"

"Good! Have them speed it up, if possible," the author interrupts. "My team's down to three Grunts, we need evac."

"_Yes, sir. We have your shuttle ready and a flight of Acolytes for escort._"

"Thank you, Captain. I'll send a signal once the landing zone is clear. Tiger, out!" The author fires his lasgun at a Flood combat form that is about to take a swing at the back of one of his SEAL-Grunts. Finally, the flood of zombies ceases, and the Elites are allowed to rally and recoup. The author activates a locator beacon and strides over to the Arbiter and the Spec-Ops commander who are making out and groping each other.

"Uh...guys?" The Elites ignore the author. "Don't you two have lines right now?" No response. Furious, he stalks away before drawing a flashbang grenade and throwing it at the two Elites. He averts his eyes and takes cover just as the device detonates. The two Elites disengage from each other and stumble about blindly, crying out incoherently for assistance.

A young woman's voice cut in on the author's helmet radio. "_Tiger, this is Delta-Three-Oh-Three, homing in on your beacon. ETA: fifteen seconds!_"

"_Acknowledged, Three-Oh-Three._" The author looks up and spots the transport flying overhead. Shortly, the ship puts down, while its fighter escort hovers overhead to secure the landing zone. After ordering his SEAL Grunts to help unload, then to take the shuttle off-world, the author looks up at one of the fighters - an Acolyte, like the one that had saved his bacon back at the lake.

"Author?" His attention turns toward the source of the inquiry, a familiar, orange-armored humanoid - slender, but with bulky shoulder armor.

"Miss Aran! Good to see you."

"I hope you don't mind me accompanying you and your team." A subtle tone in the bounty hunter's voice tells the author that he doesn't exactly have much of a choice in the matter. Regardless, the author replies with a jovial tone, "the more, the merrier."

"Sir!" Another voice cuts into the conversation. "Delta Squad, reporting for duty, sir!" The author turns to see a quartet of white-armored troopers, each with their own different paint scheme on his armor. Each carries a bulky carbine, a supply pack, and had all manner of munitions and attachments for their weapons strapped to their belts and thigh armor. The one who addressed the author possesses orange markings on his armor. "Delta-Three-Eight," the author gives a subtle nod of respect, "I trust your journey was a safe one?"

"Yes, sir."

The author gestures toward the bounty hunter, "Deltas, may I introduce...?"

"We've met," Samus cuts in. "Sorry, but I hitch-hiked a ride down...with fuel prices being what they are..."

"I see," the author suddenly adopts a Gendo Ikari-esque pose, sitting on a chair and at a desk that both suddenly appear out of nowhere. "Deltas, you all read the briefing packets I gave to you?"

"Uh...yup," pipes up the trooper with the black-and-yellow markings on his armor.

"You're supposed to address a superior as 'sir', Six-Two," the one with the green markings rebukes his fellow commando. He then addresses the author, "yes, sir. We've read the briefings."

"Excellent. Let's move out, and remember: try to avoid unnecessary engagements with the enemy."

"Hey, Sev!" Six-Two said, "bet I get more kills by the end of this mission!"

"Maybe in your dreams, you'd stand a chance," Sev, the commando with the red markings, retorts in his characteristically low voice. Unlike the other commandos' paint jobs, however, his seems to have been splattered and smeared on - combined with the red color, it looks a lot like he'd had a messy encounter with some poor, unfortunate soul.

"Stow the chatter, Zero-Seven," Three-Eight interrupts before addressing the author, "you look like you could use a rest, Author."

"Meh. Lemme change out of this thing. I think I'm gonna need shields for this run." With that, the author boards the shuttle. The clones all look at Aran. "So why exactly are you here?" Scorch voices the question on their minds.

"Um...the author called me up, saying something about...ah...Chozo ruins...no, space pirate activity...on this ring world...the Chief wanted to have dinner with me, or something..." Aran trails off, the last part almost being muttered to herself.

"Who?"

"Nevermind!" the Hunter blurts. To her immense relief, the clones merely shrug to each other and wait. The author reappears in a flash of light, clad in his old, red MJOLNIR Mk V armor. "'I command in the name of the Emperor!'" he declares, eliciting a round of sweatdropping from the clone commandos and Aran. The author absent-mindedly exclaims, "that was cool! I've always wanted to do that!"

"You're affiliated with Emperor Palpatine?" Three-Eight asks, tightening the grip on his carbine.

"Sorry. Different Empire. T'was a quote." The author starts checking over his weapons - a Mosin-Nagant 1891 bolt-action rifle with a scope, and a Ppsh-41 submachinegun, complete with a drum magazine and spare banana-style box magazines stored in his ammo pouches.

"Ah." The clone commandos relax only a hair, still somewhat bewildered by the author's random quotation. That, and the weapons he carries.

Everyone suddenly realizes that the Elites have been long gone.

"Aw, _fierfek_!" Scorch curses.

The scene changes to the part of the mission just before the gondola, where the Flood zombies have fortified the entrance. The Arbiter rides into battle, piloting a Scorpion tank, whilst the other Elites are riding on Ghosts and on a Specter. A Wraith mortar tank, piloted by the Flood, lobs superheated comets of plasma at the advancing Covenant.

"Death to the abomination!" the Spec-Ops commander roars, "burn them into dust!" A plasma bomb suddenly explodes on top of him, knocking him over. "**_OH GOD, THE BURN!_**" He suddenly starts running around, screaming in pain, but otherwise unharmed. The Elites all turn puzzled stares upon the white-armored Elite.

"Arbiter, did you _see_ that?" an Elite inquires.

"You never noticed?" the Arbiter asks, continuing onward with the Scorpion tank. The rest of the Elites continue to observe, watching the lone Spec-Ops commander cut through hordes of Flood zombies, taking entire drum magazines of bullets worth of fire from the machinegun turrets, and even surviving being accidentally blown up by the Arbiter's Scorpion's main cannon.

"The Commander is _invincible_!" the Elites cry out. "He is the Flag incarnate! He will lead us to victory over the abominations!" The Elites all give a rousing battlecry and charge into the fray to join their leader...and they all wind up being slaughtered and ass-raped by the Flood.

In moments, the Arbiter and the Spec-Ops leader reach the gondola's control panel and spot Miranda Keyes and a few UNSC marines already on their way to the Index chamber.

"Humans!" the Spec-Ops commander snarls in disgust. As though in reply, a horde of Flood zombies screech at the two Elites. "I'll deal with them, Arbiter!" the invincible Elite grabs the other's ass before igniting his energy sword and charging for the door.

As the Arbiter gets onto a massive gondola, the author's shuttle and escort pass overhead, then hover over a point just ahead of the moving gondola. The shuttle hovers over the top level, depositing the author, and five other unidentifiable armored humans.

"Strange," the author muses, "I thought that Tartarus would've dropped off reinforcements by now." He slaps his helmet, "I forgot. That horny Enforcer drone."

"You!" the Arbiter points at the author. "Who are these other humans?"

"Don't worry your pretty self, Arbiter." A loud, resounding "_thud!_" sounds off at the opposite side of the gondola. All eyes turn to face a humanoid figure clad in black armor with blue highlights and trim, with a visor to match.

"You!" Samus fires her arm cannon at the dark figure. The latter dodges a few of the shots, but grunts as a few of the energy bolts connect. It suddenly levels its own arm cannon and fires a shotgun-like energy weapon. Aran barely avoids getting hit, but one of the bolts strikes the author and downs his shields. "Dark Samus," he murmurs as the Arbiter draws his plasma sword and prepares for battle.

"What?" Scorch blurts.

"Long story for another time," the author replies. "Secure the lower levels of the gondola. I'd suggest some booby-traps, use your discretion."

"Sir!" Three-Eight barks, "Scorch! Set up some booby-traps! Fixer, Sev, you head down with Scorch. I'll stay up here with the author."

"_You've got it, Boss!_" Six-Two acknowledges.

"You should go with them..."

"We need to provide support to Aran, sir. And my squad can handle themselves, for now." The author nods in reply to the commando's argument, quickly throwing together a plan in his mind. "Three-Eight," he says, "I want you to provide covering fire. I'll close in and help Aran, although I'm not sure what good this old thing will do against armor."

"_Yes, sir!_"

The two humans and the Arbiter suddenly find themselves looking at two women wrestling, biting, clawing, scratching each other. One is Aran, in her blue bodysuit, whilst the other appears to be a glowing blue doppleganger of the former. She even has glowing, blue hair, for chrissakes! Dubya-tee-eff?

"Ah...when, or how, did that happen?" Three-Eight inquires.

"I don't know, but it's pretty freakin' random. And even though I'm not normally into this kind of stuff, it's still kind of hot." The Arbiter rolls his eyes in response.

"You're a _pig_, Author!" Aran screams as she punches Dark Samus, then receving a punch to her own face. "_YOU BITCH!_"

"I also didn't know that Aran was a woman," Three-Eight admits.

"You _didn't_? Huh..." the author is suddenly struck from behind by a Flood zombie. As he staggers in an attempt to regain his balance, the clone commando fires on the zombie, emptying half of his blaster's ammunition into the thing. A second Flood combat form lunges at Three-Eight and is put down by the other half of his clip. As he ejects the spent charge and makes to put in a new one, two more zombies land before him. They are finished off by a hail of fire from the author's Ppsh-41.

"Well, here they come," the author states.

"Hey! Watch out! Listen!" screeches an all-too-familiar voice, causing the author's eye to twitch behind his helmet visor.

"It can't be..."

"What in the galaxy was that horrible noise?" Three-Eight asks. The Arbiter grunts, "by the Forerunner...!"

"**NAVI! SHUT UP! I KNOW THERE'S--_AAAAUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHH! GET 'EM OFF!_**" They see a writhing mound of Flood zombies, mercilessly humping something. All the while, a little, winged, glowing ball of light flits around, screaming "Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!"

"Oh _god_..." the author slaps his faceshield in exasperation.

"Um...shouldn't we help him?" Three-Eight inquires, trying to ignore the other fight going on behind them; Samus and Dark Samus are still in the middle of their cat-fight, which is drawing quite a crowd of Flood zombies. The Arbiter is busy fighting off another group of combat forms.

"Yeah, c'mon."

With great effort, the two armor-clad warriors plunge into the mess and essentially shoot, hack apart, blast, kick, punch, dismember,...et cetera, the Flood combat forms, finally revealing a green-clad youth with a green cap atop a mop of blonde hair. Blue eyes wide with hysteria, the rescuee screams, "**BACK! _BACK_, YOU HORN-BALLS!**"

"Calm _down_, Link!" screeched the glowing globe of light.

"Um..." the blood-soaked author and the clone commando exchange a "now what?" look.

A Flood zombie taps the author's shoulder, causing him to cry out in surprise and train his weapon on the combat form.

"Easy, buddy! I just want that blue girl's number!"

"Huh-buh-_wha_?" the author stares in disbelief at the combat form for a myriad of reasons. One of which: how the hell can a Flood zombie speak coherent sentences and phrases in English? Three-Eight also seems to be stunned. Or utterly confused. You decide.

"Uh...yeah. Can I get her number?" the combat form asks again, more politely.

"What? She your girlfriend? _C'moooonnnn_! Buddy? Pal?"

"Oh,_ fine_!" With that, the frustrated zombie lunges at the author, snapping the latter out of his stupor. A series of bullets pierce the rotting flesh of the thing's torso, and pop the Infection pod within. The youth, Link, gets to his feet and draws a familiar sword, "_I'll kill every last one of ya! I swear it!_" The author impatiently back-hands Link, somehow causing him to come to his senses. And miraculously managing to not snap the poor boy's spine in the process.

"Owww..." Link whines.

"Quit your bitchin'!" The author addresses Three-Eight, "get the rest of the squad back up here! Now!" The commando seems to remember himself and barks, "_Deltas! Form up!_"

"_Forming up, Boss!_" comes the reply.

As the rest of Delta Squad fights their way upstairs, the author, Link, and Three-Eight slaughter the Flood combat forms watching the ongoing fight between Samus and Dark Samus. As the last zombie is dispatched, the author turns to find Link gawking at the wrestling females. The clone commando is meeting with his squadmates, with Scorch not-so-discreetly sneaking peeks at the spectacle.

"Link! It's not polite to stare!" Navi scolded her charge, "_Link!_ Hey! _Listen!_"

"Not now, Navi..."

Finally, Samus collapses onto the floor from exhaustion, bleeding from a few cuts and panting heavily. Dark Samus, however, scrambles to her feet and leaps off the gondola, disappearing into the darkness, seemingly melting into the shadows. The author kneels by Aran's side, rolling her onto her back, and pulls out a canteen, "you all right?"

"You're a dick," the blonde deadpans as she slowly sits up and accepts his proffered canteen. "Why didn't you guys help me?"

"You were too busy to notice, but we were kinda busy keeping the Flood zombies away from you."

"Oh." Silence passes between them, and no more Flood appear. Still, the commandos of Delta squad take up defensive positions and watch vigilantly for any threats.

"So..." the author starts quietly, checking his weapon's ammunition.

"Hm?"

"Isn't it kinda weird having a whole crapload of people knowing who you are, yet not knowing the lot of 'em?"

"I'm not sure you know the half of it. I mean, c'mon! All these freakin' fanboys drooling over me, and a whole bunch of other freaks writing lemon fics where I do it with Ridley or I get raped by _Metroids_. I mean, I've even been impregnated by a _self-insertion character_! It's like I'm not even a person! I'm just some kind of sex toy or something that's part of their twisted, sexual pleasures."

"Hmmm. Now that I think about it, you have it doubly rough..."

"No shit." She huffed before looking at him, noticing that he was still intently examining his weapon. A question popped into her mind as she observed him. "Hey, are you gay or shy or something?"

"Shy? Yes. Why?"

"You're not even _looking_ at me. Most of you nerds would usually be "ga-ga" over my tits or my ass. Some of 'em would be openly staring, by now, writing about or describing how beautiful my eyes are, and my '_luxurious blonde locks_!' Hell, you're not even stuttering like an idiot!" To her surprise, he looks at a space next to her head and adopts a thoughtful expression, remaining silent for a moment.

"Do you want me to?" he asks finally.

"No."

"Then I won't," he states, simply. "I feel uncomfortable if I stare at someone. I'll admit, I'm still prone to male, animalistic tendencies, but I still have my standards." Hefting his submachinegun, he continues, "a long time ago, I've learned that you don't put a girl up on a pedestal if you like her."

Samus smirks, "so there's more to you than meets the eye."

"Isn't that generally the case with most individuals?"

"But people in general are pretty dumb."

"Hence why I said 'individuals.' There's a difference."

Their small-talk continued on for some time, and Aran's respect for the author grew a bit. She generally preferred the company of aliens, or even solitude, to dealing with human beings. But the author, it seems, is apparently an exception; they had gotten to be on friendly terms, all things considered. Fast friends.

"You're an interesting character, author," Samus admits.

"I'm not the only one," he says in earnest, "you're actually an interesting character, yourself."

"Flatterer!" she teasingly accuses him.

"I try."

"Author, we've arrived," the Arbiter states, interrupting the conversation. "I will retrieve the Sacred Icon!" With that, the Elite bounds for the entrance the gondola has stopped at.

"Follow him, wouldja Deltas?"

"_Delta Squad! Take offensive formation!_"

"I'm too friggin' tired," Aran murmurs to the author with a hint of embarrassment. The author moves about and pulls out a pair of old web belts from a utility pouch. Attaching the two belts together, he lifts Aran's butt off the floor and slides the belt underneath her, despite her brief protests. After setting her backside on the floor, he positions himself just over her, with his back to her, and loops his arms through the connected belts. He sits up and now has his hands free, with Samus effectively strapped to his back. The whole process only has taken only a matter of seconds.

"You touch my ass like that again, and I'll fucking _bury_ you," the bounty hunter threatens unconvincingly, letting her arms drape forward.

"Yes'm." With a grunt, he gets to his feet and readies his Ppsh-41. With some regret, he leaves the Mosin-Nagant behind as he follows the waiting Deltas. As they proceed through the abandoned halls, they hear gunfire. They all hurry onward through the antechamber, passing all the blocked entrances to the Index chamber.

They arrive just in time to see the Arbiter head-butt Johnson, and for Miranda Keyes to be captured by Tartarus.

"Tartarus, how did _you_ survive?" the Arbiter asked. Before the Brute could say anything, the Elite squealed, "I knew it! You _must_ be a healer! You revived yourself! Hey, could you heal me? One of those humans shot me up pretty good, and--!"

"Shut up, you moron. Now give me the Icon."

"Hey! I'm the one that's supposed to retrieve the Sacred Icon!"

Tartarus brandishes his magical mallet at the Arbiter, and realization dawns on the Elite.

"Ohhh,_ fuck no_, you back-stabbing cockbite! When the Hierarchs hear of this, they'll--!"

The Brute chuckles in amusement. "_Fool._ They _ordered_ me to do it."

The Arbiter's eyes widen in shock at this, and a blast of energy from the mallet forces the Elite down the hole the Index was floating over.

"_SONOFABIIIiiiiiitch!_" the Arbiter cries out.

The Deltas and the author back out of the tunnel they'd just entered, as the Brutes start heading their way.

"I know you're there, Author!" Tartarus bellows, with something unsettling in his tone. The author silently curses to himself as he sets Aran down. Over the helmet radio, he addresses the commandos, "_take her. And once these guys leave, get back to the Perdition's Flame. Tell command that the non-aggression pact's been voided, and that they are to get in touch with our contacts in the Adeptus Astartes. Understand?_"

"_What're you doing, sir?_" Fixer inquires. The author doesn't answer as he leaves his cover and strides toward the white Brute. Samus unwittingly echoes Four-Zero's question, hissing to Scorch, "what's he _doing_? What's going on?"

"One of your carrier groups tried to close with this Sacred Ring, Author," Tartarus growls. "You know what the non-aggression pact said."

"What of it?" the author demands.

"You're coming with me to be executed before the Council. And we'll _burn_ your pitiful little fleet." The Brute smirks, "just before your execution, however, I get to have a little '_**fun**_' with you." The implications make the author shudder. Gathering his courage, he snarls at the Brute, "scum!"

With that, the author opens up with his submachinegun, only to be knocked out with a bone-shattering blow from Tartarus's hammer. The clones stare, horrified at the effects of the weapon, whilst Samus winces in heart-felt sympathy.

After the Brutes leave, a part of Aran was surprised to find herself worrying, but most of her was wondering:

_"Now what?"_

To be continued...

**Author's Note:** What the hell is going on here? Things have gotten so serious, all of a sudden! And what's going on between me (the author) and Samus? And why does it stink of cheese as badly as Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones? Well, it's not what it looks like, I can tell ya that. Although one must wonder if I've been subtly influenced by the horrible story-writing style Lucas used. Bleh. Now we see how that cease-fire agreement is involved in this horrible attempt at plot. And how d'you all like the arrival of the clone commandos of Delta squad?

Also...please be aware that I'm pulling stuff out of my ass, now. I forget all the ideas I had in my mind, and I don't have Halo 2 to help refresh my memory or to help me come up with new ideas. So...please bear with me.

I'm also planning out some serious fics (and a cross-over or two), and this is kind of serving as my quasi-experiment. God, I suck at plots, and stuff, though.

Anyway, now that I'm working, and since school is gonna start soon, my writing may have to take a backseat. Especially this parody, which is slowly becoming somewhat tedious to write. Maybe it's just me, and it's self-induced, but I'm really having a hard time with this parody.

So...hope you at least kind of enjoyed the fic. If not, well...you know the drill: just stop reading.

Tiger Tank


	8. Gravemind

Gravemind (Or: The Dead Brain)

Slowly, the Master Chief comes to, finding himself in a cavernous chamber, with its walls covered in what seem to be trunk-like creeper vines. A blanket of miasma adds to the eerieness of the scene. The Spartan becomes aware that one of these "vines" has itself wrapped securely around his being, forcing his arms to his sides so that he is unable to move them. He then realizes that what he initially thought were vines are actually tentacles - and they're attached to a massive, thing that appears to be mostly a gaping maw of a mouth, and a small neck and body.

To top it all off, the Spartan's pelvic armor is missing, and his ass currently hurts like innumerable foreign objects had been shoved where the sun doesn't shine. The creature restraining him chuckles, rumbling in a somewhat raspy, basso voice, "**was it good for you, too?**"

"Ugh...what _happened_?" the Chief groans, rolling his head around to relieve the stiffness in his neck - apparently, he has been in this rather less-than-comfortable position for awhile.

"_I don't think you even want to know, Chief,_" Cortana deadpans over his helmet speakers. "_Trust me on this one. You don't want to know_ at all."

"Eh, whatever." The Chief nods at the alien being, "so what the hell is this?"

"**I? I am the monument to all your sins.**" With that, two more tentacles descend, restraining a struggling Arbiter. The Sangheili gives the Master Chief a venomous glare and spits, "_Demon!_"

"Relax," the Spartan growls, "I'd rather not piss this thing off. Plus, I think I have more right to be pissed off - my pants are effectively missing and I've been out for god-knows-how-long. Plus my ass hurts. _A lot_." Nobody says anything. "I'm dead serious."

"_ANAL SEEPAGE! O NOES!_" screams a random voice. In reply, there is the loud, booming report of a shotgun that effectively silences the said random voice. After exchanging confused glances with the Chief and the Arbiter, the creature known as Gravemind (unbeknownst to our.  
heroes?) turns its "face" toward the Master Chief and says, "**this one is machine and nerve, and has its mind concluded,**" then it faces the Arbiter, "**this one is but flesh and faith, and is the more deluded.**"

"Kill me or _release me_, parasite!" the silver-armored Elite snarls, "_SO QUIT YO JIBBA-JABBA, FOO'!_"

"**There is much talk,**" Gravemind rumbles, seemingly ignoring the Arbiter's insolence, "**and I have listened, through rock and metal and time. Now I shall talk, and you will listen.**" Yet another tentacle appears, wrapped around a familiar-looking lightbulb - except it glows red, instead of blue.

"_Greetings, comrades!_" the bot barks jovially in a stereotypical Russian accent, "_I am 2401 Penitent Tangent. I am Monitor of Installation 05!_"

Yet another tentacle is produced, this one with a familiar Prophet seemingly fused with the tentacle. Regret proclaims, "and I am the Prophet of Regret, Hierarch of the Covenant!" He gives a yelp of pain, probably due to the fact that his very being is being broken down and integrated into Gravemind. All the while, his nervous system is still active and he is very much alive to feel every nanosecond of excruciating pain. But we don't really care about that, do we? Penitent Tangent spots the Master Chief and spouts, "_A Reclaimer? Wonderful! We have much to do! We must activate facility in order to contain the Capitalist outbreak!_"

"Stay where you are!" Regret protests feebly, "nothing can be done until my sermon is complete!"

"Wrong. _This facility has a successful utilization record of 1.2 trillion simulated and one actual. It is ready for firing, so let us be firing it, da?_"

"Of all these objects our Lords left behind," Regret whines, "there are none so _worthless_ as these accursed Oracles! They know _nothing_ of the Great Journey!"

"_And_ you _know nothing about containment!_" Penitent Tangent retorts, "_you have demonstrated complete disregard for even the most basic protocols. Fucking noob!_"

"_STUFFU! I BAN YOU HARD!_" The snail lets out an agonized cry.

"**This one's containment, and this one's Great Journey are the same,**" Gravemind lowers the Monitor and the Prophet into the shadows, where Regret's screams can still be heard. "**Your Prophets have promised you freedom from a doomed existence, but you will find no salvation on this ring. Those who built this place knew what they wrought - do not mistake their intent, or all will perish as before**."

"This thing's right," the Master Chief interjects. "Halo is a weapon - your 'Prophets' are making a big mistake."

"Your ignorance has already destroyed a ring, _Demon_. I will not let you harm another!"

"Goddammit, open your fucking ears! Oh wait, you don't have any, do you?"

"**If you will not hear the truth, then I will show it to you. There is still time to keep the key from turning. But first, it must be found.**" Gravemind turns to face the Master Chief, then the Arbiter, "**you will search one likely spot, and you will search another. Fate had us meet as foes, but this ring will make us brothers!**"

The scene fades to black as the two heroes disappear in flashes of golden light.

_High Charity_ is positioned between Delta Halo and the planet it's orbiting. A fierce space battle is already underway, on par with the dazzling and mind-blowing battle over Coruscant in _Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith_. The space around the gargantuan planetoid is congested with sleek, piscine Covenant vessels firing upon one another, exchanging silvery-blue-white plasma discharges with one another. As the battle has been raging for some time, the shields on most of the ships have been whittled down.

A short distance away, the _Perdition's Flame_ and its fleet have taken up a defensive formation, and the massive mothership continues to lob powerful, thermonuclear warheads at the enemy, causing massive amounts of damage to the bunched-up Covenant ships. Luckily, for the small flotilla, the Covenant and the ex-Covenant forces are so intent on killing each other, they fail to notice the _Perdition's Flame_ and its relatively small retinue. Any ships that do approach are immediately cut to ribbons by powerful ion cannons and blown apart by missiles. Any Covenant Seraphs that approach are blasted into oblivion by the heavy energy pulse cannon turrets on the capital ships. The four squads of ZGMF-1017 GINNs float around the ships, providing close-in protection, especially against enemy fighters.

Backing up the _Perdition's Flame_ and its fleet are a few battle barges of the _Adeptus Astartes_ Chapter, the Ultramarines. Accompanying the venerable Space Marines are a few frigates belonging to the Navy of the Imperium of Man, each with a company of Imperial Guardsmen aboard along with their armored units. Imperial naval fighters stand by as the battle-scarred ships level a withering barrage of lascannon and artillery fire against what they've deemed "the unholy xeno scum".

Looking at the massive battle raging around _High Charity_, it's easy to see how and why a heavily-armed and shielded Republic Gunship still manages to slip into the massive planetoid. Dodging stray lascannon and plasma bolts, along with missiles and rockets, the crew manages to navigate through the chaotic war zone and blast a way through a rather convenient weak spot (one of many, probably) in _High Charity's_ defenses.

The gunship swiftly makes its way through the carnage and finally arrives near its objective. Even the anti-air defenses within the city are occupied, as the Elites and Brutes go head-to-head with each other. At a large structure, a mob of Grunts and Jackals charge up the steps leading to the building's entrance, but are kept at bay by a handful of Brutes armed with staffs. One of the Brutes smashes a Jackal's cranium into the deck, then swings the weapon around to hit some more of the marauders.

A sudden, uncomfortable gust of wind catches the aliens' attention.

Eyes turn toward the distinct rumbling-humming of the gunship's engine as it hovers overhead. They only get a brief glimpse of the tiger-shark design painted on the craft's nose before a veritable hellstorm of laser fire and rockets wipe out the Brutes and the entire mob. The gunship's thruster-wash kicks up minute dust particles as it touches down and unloads its passengers.

"_We'll be hanging around and keeping out of trouble,_" the pilot says. "_Radio us when you have the Author. Good hunting!_"

"_Acknowledged. Thanks, Pilot,_" Delta Three-Eight replies as he hops out along with the rest of Delta Squad. Accompanying the commandos are Samus Aran (back in her power armor); Link (and Navi, unfortunately); an Advanced Reconnaissance Commando clone trooper; and a pair of Ultramarines, both armed to the teeth with their trademark bolter guns and sheathed shortswords. The two fanatical super-soldiers of the Imperium of Mankind tower over the rest of the rescue team, standing at roughly two meters tall.

With the ARC trooper being the last to step off, the team advances on the structure as the gunship ascends into the air and flies off.

"_Omega, we need you to do your thing,_" Three-Eight addresses the ARC trooper. Wordlessly, the ARC clone trooper moves on ahead with his DC-17 blaster carbine at the ready. The commandos follow, with Samus, Link, and the Space Marines bringing up the rear.

Inside, Truth is reclining in his hover-chair before a webcam, doffing his robes in a manner he thinks is "seductive", whilst giving a speech. All the while, his subordinates are turning green in the face, resisting the strong urge to regurgitate their previous meal.

"We are, all of us, greatly concerned...the release of the parasite was unexpected, unfortunate. But there is no need to panic...In truth, this is a time to rejoice! A moment that all the Covenant should savor! For the Sacred Icon has been found. With it, our path is clear - our entry into the Divine Beyond guaranteed! The Great Journey is nigh, and nothing, not even the Flood, can stop it!"

Golden, incandescent light appears before the webcam and the Master Chief appears in a bright flash. Grunts soil their suits while the Brutes take a moment to register this new information in their minds. The green-clad Spartan cocks his helmeted head to one side and says "boo!" in a low voice to Truth. The wrinkly snail, in turn, lets out a horrible, falsetto, girly shriek as the Brute honor guards flanking him lower their ceremonial staff weapons to block the Chief's path to the Hierarch.

"_KILL THE DEMON!_" Faster than you could say "_kill the demon!_", the Prophet disappears down a grav-lift, leaving the Brute guards to deal with the Master Chief. Said Brute guards start foaming at the mouth and paw at the ground, lowering their heads all the while. "Brutes!" Cortana told the Chief. "The faster you can kill them, the better. They don't have shields, but you'd better take them out before..." the Brutes bay for the Chief's blood before bull-charging him, "...they're berserking!"

"_Crap_." The Spartan dodges, taking advantage of his better agility. One of the Brutes charges headlong into a wall, knocking itself out and even fracturing its helmet. The Chief doesn't get to admire the large indentation left in the alloyed bulkhead, however, since the other Brute continues to hound him. Like a possessed beast, the Brute gallops around the room, snarling, salivating, charging at the Master Chief again and again.

Tartarus's voice suddenly bellows over the intercom, "**_intruder in the council chamber! Protect the Hierarchs! Seal all exits!_**"

Suddenly, more snarling Brutes appear.

"_Crap on a crap cracker!_" the Chief decides he's had enough of this and rips a fart.

It does nothing.

"The flatulence! It does _nothing!_" the dispirited Spartan cries. Briefly, he wonders why his legendary poo-gas was having no lethal effects on his adversaries. Seeing the four Brutes closing in on him convinced the Chief to ask the author at next opportunity. If either of them survived long enough.

By some stroke of luck, the exit suddenly opens and a small device is tossed into the room. Automatically, the Chief averts his eyes. An extremely loud "_POP!_" is accompanied by a blinding flash. The Brutes stumble and trip over themselves, dazed and disoriented by the flashbang detonator.

A second after the device goes off, the clone commados storm into the room, firing at the Brutes. A familiar, orange-armored figure and another familiar character both charged into the chamber. The former looses a missile against one of the Brutes, throwing the beast against a bulkhead with enough force to elicit a sickening "crunch!" The latter rapidly looses two arrows into a Brute's eyes, effectively performing a grisly lobotomy.

The other two simian/elephantine aliens are almost as quickly downed by automatic blaster fire and bolter rounds, the latter having rather messy results.

"Master Chief," Samus Aran nods at the Spartan.

"What're you all doing here?" the Chief queries, picking up a dead Brute's discarded plasma rifle. "And who're these guys?"

"The author sent us here to rendezvous with you before we all move on to save his sorry ass."

"How did he...?"

"He just knew," Link interrupts. "C'mon, it's jail-breaking time!" The Hero of Time heads for the door they had just come in through, as Samus gestures to the clones, "to answer your second question, these four are clone commandos. The other guy is a one-man army. The two big guys are...friends...of the Author's." The Chief looks over his new allies for a brief moment before returning his attention to the bounty hunter.

"What's the short version?"

"That was the short version."

"Oh."

With that, the merry band makes their way through the bowels of the ship, slaughtering all who oppose them, until they come upon the detention block. On a catwalk, they huddle just outside the door they're about to enter.

"_All right, Chief. Everyone. We need to get those Marines out. Quietly._" Everyone arches an eyebrow at Cortana's instructions.

"Cortana," Samus says, "you do realize that none of the weapons in this universe come with suppressors, right?"

"We're the only ones equipped for quiet operations," Three-Eight points out. "But the sniper configuration isn't exactly the best for close quarters."

"And I wouldn't fancy tackling one of those Brutes with just a blade," Four-Zero adds, nodding in agreement.

"I bet I could do it," Zero-Seven growls. The commando fidgets, tightening his hold on his DC-17M carbine.

"I'd like to see you try, Sev," Six-Two snorts disbelievingly. "They're almost as strong as wookies."

"Cut the chatter, you two lovebirds," the Chief cuts in. "Here's what we'll do. First, we'll need to do a bit of recon and see how many Brutes are in each detention wing. From there, we can either use some of those flashbang grenades before rushing them and killing them quickly, or we can hang back and pick them off. The problem with both is that we'll probably be crowded together, and the Covenant aren't against using heavy explosives in a close-quarters environment."

"I'm for rushing," Sev says. The Space Marines nod in agreement, as do Link and Navi, although it's difficult to see in the fairy's case. The Chief asks, "okay, so who's up for hanging back?" Fixer and Boss each raise a gloved hand, while Scorch shrugs, "I don't care. As long as I get to blow stuff up." The ARC trooper remains silent and alert, glancing around at their surroundings.

"You know," Aran cuts in, "we could do a combination of both."

"'Both?'" Link echoes.

"Yeah." The bounty hunter explains, "have some of us hold the door and take potshots while the rest mix it up with the Brutes - up-close and personal, if necessary."

"Good idea," Three-Eight nods. "That way we'll have secured an escape route from the place. But the ones holding the door'll have to be careful, and they might not even be able to fire without accidentally hitting the people who're engaging the Brutes."

"We could probably hold the door," Scorch proffers. Sev snorts in response, "like they'd trust you to give them cover fire?"

"Hey, it's not like I can't hit the broad side of a hangar!"

"_Enough!_" the Chief snaps. "Delta squad will hold the door. The rest of us will secure the immediate wing while we search for Marines and the Author." Everyone nods in assent.

They breach the first jail cell. The charge is led by the two Space Marines, who blaze away with their bolters and roar, "for the Emperor!" Since the narrow walkway between the cells slopes downward from the entrance, this gives the commandos a good field of fire. In mere seconds, the Ultramarines effectively disembowel the Brute guards with a hail of bolter fire, splattering gore and viscera onto the walls. A few shots from the "sniper-configured" DC-17Ms ensure that the Brutes are dead, filling the air with the stench of burning fur and meat.

"_The xeno filth have been purged from this area,_" one of the Space Marines report over his helm's vox unit.

Wordlessly pressing past the two soldier-fanatics, the Chief locates the controls to the shield barriers keeping the cells sealed and powers the shields down with his inexplicably intuitive knowledge of the alien technology. The glowing, purple barriers fizzle out of existence, and a squad of UNSC Marines exit their cells.

"Freedom! It smells so sweet!" one of them cheers as he picks up a Covenant Carbine.

"Let's go rob a liquor store on the way home!" another says as he arms himself with a Needler. The rest of the freed Marines pick up whatever weapons they can find and follow the rescue team outside, back onto the catwalk they were on prior to breaching the door.

"_There's another group on the floor above,_" Cortana radioes, "_also, the Covenant have inexplicably been alerted to your presence, so watch out for enemy patrols._" Just as the AI finishes, a bright lance of energy strikes down one of the UNSC Marines, making a neat hole through the unfortunate human's head.

"So much for stealth," Scorch comments dryly. Nobody replies as Zero-Seven shoots the Jackal sniper. Brutes and Jackals descend through the same gravity lifts the team had utilized earlier, and they look none too happy. The UNSC Marines open fire, hurling insults and taunts in addition to their rain of Needler, Carbine, and plasma fire. The clone commandos hold their fire as the Space Marines open up with their powerful bolters. Unable to cope with the massive barrage, the phalanx of shield-wielding Jackals capitulates before the withering barrage.

The Brutes shove aside the Jackals and charge toward their opponents in a mad rush.

A Brute manages to close with one of the Ultramarines before getting its skull blown off, cerebral grey matter and bone fragments showering the other Brutes. It does nothing to slow them down, however - it only drives them to greater heights of bestial rage. One of the UNSC Marines is torn in half, and the screaming upper portion of the hapless human is thrown into the abyss, screaming: "_I regret nothing! I've lived as few men dare to dream!_"

One of the Adeptus Astartes is knocked off his feet as a Brute blind-sides the super-soldier. A few other Brutes descend like scavenging beasts, wailing away at the Space Marine's ancient, ceramite, powered armor. Link takes a slash at one of the Brutes in an effort to assist the downed Ultramarine, but it only infuriates his target. "_**Watch out!**_" Navi screeches. The Brute tackles the Hero of Time and is only stopped by a concussive missile blast that sends the beast flying over the catwalk's edge and into the depths.

Samus Aran hurls herself at one of the Brutes and manages to knock it off the downed Space Marine. Without missing a beat, the bounty hunter gives the beast a heavy face-full of armcannon before effectively burning its head down to the bone with her plasma beam. The Space Marine manages to overpower his opponent, slashing open the Brute's neck with his shortsword. The Marine then severs the alien's head before scrabbling to his feet, looking for a new target.

There aren't any, for the moment.

The rest of the Brutes had been gunned down by the others - however, not without the latter sustaining casualties and injuries. The ARC trooper, Omega, appears to be favoring a bruised ribcage. Only a third of the UNSC Marines remain, a few having been cast down into the foggy depths of the abyss below them.

Samus is already heading up the grav-lift, with the clone commandos right behind her. The Space Marines move to secure the area around the lift as the UNSC Marines and Link (yes, and Navi) take the grav-lifts up to the next floor. When Link finally ascends, the Space Marines follow, finding the others waiting before their next objective.

"Same plan as last time?" the Master Chief asks. Everyone gives their non-verbal assent. Once the door is breached, a flashbang is thrown in before the Master Chief and the Space Marines charge into the detention wing, followed by Samus and Link. A Brute captain rubs at his eyes, whining, "dude, what the hell? What the hell was that? That sucked!" A few bolter shots to the head silence his complaints. With the two Space Marines watching his back, the Chief deactivates the cell shields.

"Found him!" Link calls. From his cell, the author lumbers out into the walkway, still clad in his crimson MJOLNIR Mk V armor.

"Thanks for the rescue," the author says earnestly. "I was beginning to wonder if you guys had gotten lost."

"We should get moving," the Chief suggests. The author snaps his fingers and a holstered Smith & Wesson M500 revolver appears on his belt, and an SVD Dragunov materializes in his hands. Samus arches an eyebrow, "I've been wondering, Author, you're supposed to be like a god on this plane of existence. Why didn't you just teleport yourself out of captivity, instead of having us come in to bail your ass out?"

"And frankly," the Chief interjects, "how could you be writing this story while being jailed?"

"To answer the Chief's question," the author gestures to himself, "this is merely an avatar. I can still write, but if anything happens to my avatar, there won't be much I could do. Although I usually try to keep him out of deadly situations, I still make mistakes."

"You said you couldn't do much," Link queries, "whaddya mean?"

"What most younger/newer authors seem to fail to realize is that every time we interfere with a universe, things get screwed up. A lot of them just pull things out of their asses, defying logic and the established rules within a universe, and this often results in the universe getting really screwed up." Everyone stares at him with blank expressions. "For example, if someone made too many changes in this universe, it could wind up being like a stereotypical LSD trip." More silence.

"You, sir," the Chief finally says, "have just _blown my mind_."

"I was always horrible at explaining things," the author sighs.

"So basically, you're limited to what you can do on this plane, otherwise you could wind up destroying it?" Samus asks.

"_Exactly!_" the author beams, "you win a cookie!"

"Joy," the bounty hunter deadpans. _Crazy nutjob. A nice nutjob, but still a crazy nutjob._

"That aside, my being captured was vital to the plot."

"Um...how?" Aran asks.

"Let's move on. I'll explain as we go. Three-Eight, contact our ride, would you? Tell them we'll meet them at..." he pauses for a moment before reciting a string of coordinates.

"Yes, sir!"

The group continues onward to freedom, as the author attempts to explain certain things to Samus.

"I think I get it," she says. "The whole point of your being captured was to make a subtle jab at some of the authors on

"I was being subtle?" the author asks. Samus chuckles, despite herself. "I know," he says, "I'm a nutter."

"It's kind of witty, so I wouldn't say you're a complete whack-job."

"I would," the Master Chief mutters.

"I heard that." The author threatens, "another insult like that and I'll make you wear the 'Girly Grif' shirt!" With that, the author holds up a large, orange t-shirt with the following on the front in bold, white text: "**I JUST WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW THAT I'M A GIRL, AND I LIKE TO WEAR RIBBONS IN MY HAIR, AND I WANT TO KISS ALL THE BOYS!**" Tennis ball-sized sweatdrops appear on everyone's head and/or helmet.

"I'll be good." the Spartan says. The author cackles to himself as Samus shakes her head.

"I take that back. You _are_ a complete whack-job," she murmurs.

Much slaughtering and loss of the UNSC Marines, later, the group finally arrives at a platform with one of those weird, one-way grav bridges.

"Ooh...I've always wanted to see what it was actually like to be on one of these things," the author says eagerly.

"Is it safe?" Four-Zero inquires.

"As long as you don't try to get back on, at the end. You'll just fall through. I don't know why that happened," the author holds his helmet as he would his chin, spacing out for a moment. "Oh well. Let's-a go!" The author hops on and starts flying toward the other side. "_Whoosh!_" he cries out jubilantly.

"Here goes," Scorch says before hopping on. With a loud "_WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!_" the clone commando follows the author. Sev shakes his helmeted head as he hops on with Fixer and Boss. Samus and Link follow, with the Ultramarines bringing up the rear. Just as they make it to the other side, the In Amber Clad roars overhead before crashing into the inner walls of High Charity.

"_I have a bad feeling about this_," Cortana says. "_Also, the Covenant have destroyed at least two of their own ships. And there's small arms fire all throughout the fleet._"

All the while, Truth continues to broadcast religious prattle, and Tartarus orders his Brutes to rise up and cast down the Elites, encouraging them to sodomize the Elites for some reason.

"_This isn't good,_" Cortana says again, "_I'm getting reports of Flood spreading throughout High Charity._"

A Pelican full of Flood zombies suddenly crashes into the building, and the combat forms spill out. Some of them spot our fearless crew and let out a blood-curdling screech.

"_What in the name of the Primarch _are_ those things?_" one of Ultramarines ask, his bolter already at the ready.

"**_Less talky, more shooty!_**" the author says as he puts a shot right into a combat form's chest. The bullet passes clean through the rotting flesh and pops the infection pod within. With that, everyone opens up on the abominations, amid the zombies' screams of "HAX!" and "OMG NICE AIMBOT U NOOBS!"

Link draws his sword, but Samus's gauntleted hand grips his shoulder, "_no_. Hit them from a distance. You _really _don't wanna get hit by those tthings." Reluctantly, the Hero of Time sheathes his blade and instead takes up his bow and arrows.

When the last of the zombies are dispatched, they turn to find one of the Ultramarines clawing at his neck, choking sounds and cries of pain emanating from his helmet's vox speaker. His battle-brother looks on in confusion, "_what ails you, Brother_?" The others also watch with bemused expressions, except for the author and the Chief.

The former has his Dragunov leveled with the suffering Space Marine's head, while the latter holds a plasma grenade in hand and has his plasma rifle trained on the Space Marine's torso.

"What're you two _doing_?" Samus inquires uneasily.

"He's been infected by a Flood infection form," the author replies, his rifle unwavering. "Check for yourself."

Samus does a quick scan with her suit's scan-visor and her eyes widen at the report from her gunship's AI.

"So what do we do?" she asks.

"Kill him before he's subverted by the infection form," the Master Chief answers.

"_What is this?_" the other Space Marine demands, moving himself between the author and his fellow Ultramarine. "_Are you betraying us?_"

"We're trying to save all our asses! So _move!_"

"Wait...so what'll happen once the infection form takes over?" Three-Eight asks the author.

"If it gains control of this Space Marine, we can all kiss our asses good-bye."

At a handsignal from their Boss, the Deltas reconfigure their DC-17Ms into anti-armor setups before aiming the weapons at the convulsing Space Marine. Reluctantly, the Ultramarine moves away from his comrade and aims his bolter at him. "_May you continue to serve the Emperor as one of His warrior angels._"

The Ultramarine-turned-Flood suddenly leaps at its former comrade, knocking the Ultramarine down before lunging at the author. The author pours half of his magazine before the weapon is torn from his grip and he is slammed in the gut by the heavy, gauntleted fist of the combat form. He sails through the air and slams into the deck just as the Deltas open up. The salvo of grenades barely fazes the Space Marine. Samus unloads five missiles at once into the combat form, managing to blow off its head. Of course, this does nothing, so the creature rams her and knocks her over and for a good meter or two.

The Ultramarine suddenly tackles the combat form from behind with blade in hand, burying the weapon into the thing's neck in an attempt to strike at its heart. However, it does very little, and the Space Marine is hurled away, as if the ceramite armor weighed no more than a pillow. Just as the Space Marine hits the deck, the combat form is hit by another salvo of grenades, supplemented by a barrage of missiles from Samus.

"_How the hell do we kill this thing?_" she screams at nobody in particular.

"We have to destroy the infection pod in its chest," the author gasps as he slowly joins her. He draws his revolver and fires at the ceramite chest plate. The fifty-caliber round merely fractures the winged skull emblem embossed on the armor. The following two shots yield the same results, with little to no effect against the combat form. Abruptly, the combat form turns on the clone commandos, making the author's last two shots impact against the ceramite-armored back. He curses as he reloads.

Zero-Seven and Four-Zero are knocked off their feet, while Six-Two is sent flying. Three-Eight stands his ground, peppering the abomination with blaster bolts. The ARC commando and Link pelt it from behind in an attempt to draw its attention.

They succeed.

The thing turns toward them and charges before swinging at them. Link manages to raise his shield, but the inhumanly strong combat form winds up smashing the Hylian shield into pieces, as well as breaking the hero's arm. The ARC trooper leaps up and over the combat form and strikes it from behind with the butt of his blaster carbine. He might have just tried tickling the thing with a feather, given the apparent lack of a reaction. The combat form whirls around, sweeping the ARC trooper's feet out from under him. Laying on his back, the ARC trooper can only watch as the combat form prepares to pummel him into the next life.

Suddenly, a purple beam of electricity strikes the combat form's exposed neck, zapping the thing and killing the infection form inside. The decapitated body hits the deck with a loud clatter of ceramite on metal. All eyes turn toward Samus, who lowers her cooling arm cannon. The author gives her a thumbs-up, "I _forgot_ about those missile combos."

"I'm starting to run low," the bounty hunter sighs. "Let's hurry up and get back to your ship so I can recharge."

"I love you," the Chief says, staring at Aran with admiration. The bounty hunter gives an uncharacteristically girly giggle and squeals, "_hooray!_ Let's go on a date and grab some dinner, and..."

The author sighs and he checks up on Delta squad.

After patching each other up, the team regroups and heads for the landing pad where Truth, Mercy, and Tartarus are departing. For some odd reason, they manage to catch up just as Miranda Keyes and Sergeant Johnson are loaded aboard. Flood infection pods skitter toward the Covenant, but most of them are eliminated by the Brutes and their awesome stomping skills.

Except one.

A Flood infection form manages to leap onto Mercy's neck and starts trying to worm its way into the Prophet's wrinkly neck. Tartarus makes to forcefully remove the parasite, but Truth stops him. "Let him be! The Great Journey waits for no one, brother," the Hierarch lisps coldly, "Not even you." Tartarus reluctantly follows the Hierarch aboard the waiting Phantom and the dropship escapes just as the group makes it to the dying Mercy.

"Rose...bud..." the wrinkly snail croaks.

"Your pal, Truth," the Chief demands of the Hierarch, "where's he off to?"

"Earth," the Prophet groans, "to finish what we started. And this time...none of you will...be...left...behind..." The Hierarch passes on with a "HURK! BLAAAHHHH!"

"_That structure in the center,_" Cortana says, "_it's a Forerunner ship. And Truth's dropship is heading right for it. We have to stop him!_"

The Republic Gunship arrives; the clone commandos, Samus, the author, Link, and the Ultramarine board the ship.

"_Chief,_" the author radioes, "_We're going to stop Tartarus from activating the Halo!_"

"_Why do you care?_" the Chief queries. "_It's not like you'd actually be affected!_"

"_So you want to die? Cheer up, emo kid!_" The author waves as the gunship lifts off, "_good luck, Chief. I have a frigate standing by to drop off a mobile suit for you._"

With that, the red-armored Sazabi drops onto the deck before the Chief, flattening Mercy's body, along with the Infection pod.

"Let's get this party started," the Chief says, rubbing his gloved hands together in glee.

_To Be Continued..._

**Author's Note: **Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh. I hope I can make things a little more humorous. Or blatantly humorous? Meh. I've also noticed an increase in flubs and stuff in my writing, especially in the previous chapter. This sort of thing happened with my previous parody, as well. How frustrating. Also, keeps cutting stuff out, like the ellipses (the three dots: "...") I had in the part where the combat form was talking to the author. So if you were wondering what the hell that was about...yeah. In-between the combat form's lines were the author's (or the avatar's) reaction of stunned silence. Their text-editing stuff sucks. Blah.

Anyway...hope this chapter was enjoyable. I think it's the longest one, so far. Anyway, this is the second to the last chapter, I think. I don't know if I'll bother with a bonus chapter at the end to serve as a sort of epilogue, this time.

Tiger Tank


	9. Uprising

Uprising (Or: Insurgency!)

The Arbiter appears in an iridescent flash of golden light, landing onto a dirt path on the mountainous terrain of Delta Halo. The ex-bitch-boy looks around and listens to the distant explosions and sounds of plasma fire, before picking up the plasma rifle of a fallen Elite. For some strange, inexplicable reason, the plasma weapon is fully charged.

"I'm not complaining," the Arbiter shrugs. The Elite follows the dirt path, ignoring the smelly corpses of Elites and Brutes off to the side. It isn't long before the Arbiter runs into a pair of Brutes.

"The Arbiter!" one of the simian/elephantine aliens roar, "seize him, so we may _sodomize_ him!"

The gray-armored Elite whips out a second plasma rifle and starts running on the sides of the mountain rock in slow-motion, as the music from the lobby scene in _The Matrix_ starts playing from nowhere. The Brutes spray indiscriminately in the typical henchman style, missing horribly. The Arbiter's shots all miraculously manage to strike their marks, killing the Brutes.

However, the shooting and the music has alerted a nearby patrol.

"So _that's_ why that music started playing out of nowhere! It's the Arbiter!" a Brute captain yells, his little red flag flapping in the wind. "Kill him!"

The pack of Brutes level their pincer-like plasma rifles at the Arbiter and let loose a withering barrage of crimson plasma bolts. Smiling, clacking his mandibles together, the Arbiter drops his weapons and raises his hands, letting loose a deep bellow. The plasma bolts suddenly freeze in midair before dissipating. The dumbfounded Brutes hesitate, staring at the silver-armored Elite with traces of trepidation in their collective gaze. Even the Brute captain seems to be taken aback by this strange occurrence.

Capitalizing upon their moment of inaction, the Arbiter ignites his plasma sword and leaps into the group, viciously hacking and slashing at the Brutes with the glowing, blue-white blade. Within moments, the charred remnants of the Brutes lay at the former bitch-boy's feet, their disembodied heads still displaying expressions of disbelief and shock. For some inexplicable reason, though, one of them had its eyes crossed and its tongue sticking out.

The Arbiter proceeds to the door leading to the next segment of the level. Just as he reaches the portal, several drop-pods crash into the ground nearby. The gray-armored alien cocks his head in slight puzzlement as the pods open up, and a collection of Elites and Grunts with a motley assortment of armor colors hop out and gather in a circle.

The Arbiter clacks his mandibles together, "what the fu--?"

"The Prophets and Brutes have turned against us!" a gold-armored Elite yells.

"We must summon our hero!" a red-armored Elite agrees.

"Make it so," the gold Elite nods in approval and kicks a green-armored Grunt. The little alien squeals before pumping his fist into the air. On his finger, a ring with a mountain symbol embossed on it begins to glow. "EARTH!" the Grunt screams.

"FIRE!" the red-armored Elite cries, raising his own fist into the air, a similar ring around one of his fingers. This one, however, has a flame embossed in its face.

"WIND!" says a white-armored Elite, following suit.

"WATER!" screams a blue-armored Elite.

"HEART!" an orange-armored Grunt squeals enthusiastically, hopping up and down as he pumps his own fist into the air.

A swirling portal of dark, purple energy appears on the ground, in the middle of the motley group, and a foul wind rakes the vegetation around them, eliciting a loud rustling of leaves that rivals the roar of a white-water rapid. Dark clouds appear in the suddenly dark sky, swirling overhead, and seeming to be centered over the portal. The Arbiter falls to his knees and grimaces in agony as an unholy choir of screams wail in his mind, a thousand mouths crying out in indescribable pain.

Staring into the depths of the dark gateway, the five ring-bearers continue to chant their respective words in unison.

The scene erupts into bedlam as blue blaster bolts rain upon the group, punctuated by lances of green energy. The Republic Commandos of Delta Squad rappel in as a familiar gunship hovers overhead. The author appears in a brilliant flash of light, his iridescent, crimson armor gleaming in the sunlight. Accompanying him are five, towering, hulking figures clad in magnificent, ancient, blue armor. They wield an unusual assortment of both multi-barrelled firearms and various close-combat implements in either hand. Two carry massive and ancient assault cannons, assisted by seemingly oversized power fists. The other three figures wield double-barrelled storm bolters, one also equipped with a power claw; another, with a growling chainsword; and the third holds aloft a glowing, humming power sword.

Standing out on their white, skull-like helmets, the red "eyes" of the Terminators seem to bore into the assortment of ex-Covenant aliens. The author points at the latter and says, "turn that shit off! All that screaming is giving me a headache!"

"_**Foul servants of Chaos!**_" the sword-wielding Terminator sergeant booms, his guttural tone enhanced by the vox-speaker on his ancient armor. "_**And **_**xenos**_**, no less!**_"

"_**Suffer not the alien to live!**_" the other Terminators bellow menacingly, making the group of aliens collectively soil their armor.

"**By your powers combined**," a deep, basso voice rumbles, "**I am...**"

"_**What in the name of the Emperor is that?**_" the Terminator sergeant queries.

"It's our hero!" the two Grunts in the group exclaim. The Elites, however, remain silent, as they stare in shock and awe at the monstrosity they have unwittingly summoned. The Republic Commandos, Link, and the Terminators all stare at the thing in confusion, whilst the author has an M14 battle rifle braced against his shoulder and aimed at the abomination.

"JIGGLYPUFF!"

"_What_," Boss asks the author, "in the galaxy is _that_ thing?"

"It's a demon worshipped by the young, impressionable children of my world, introduced as a marketing device; a beast capable of lulling its victims to sleep with its terrible, Britney Spears-esque singing. This freak of nature is just one of many, and is just a single species amongst a multitude of these demonic creatures collectively known as '_Pokemon!_'"

"You can't be _serious_," Scorch deadpans. "Are you? No fierfekin' way."

"_Look!_" the author yells, pointing at the demon, "that en't no ordinary puffball! It's got a mean streak, a _kilometer_ wide!"

"Yeah _right_," Sev rumbles, "what's she do? Slap your bum?"

"I'm _warnin'_ you!"

"Oh, would you knock it off with the _Monty Python_ references?" Link screams. "Let's just send this thing back to wherever it came from!"

"Death awaits you all with _nasty, big, pointy teeth_!" With that, the author starts performing a pantomime of said "_nasty, big, pointy teeth_", with his gauntleted hand over the part of his helmet where his mouth would be. The Terminators exchange confused glances with Delta Squad.

"This is fucking ridiculous," the Hero of Time sighs as he draws his sword. "One puffball on a stick, coming_ right up!_" The green-clad hero raises the Master Sword and charges, screaming at the top of his lungs. Navi follows him, screaming, "_HEY! WATCH OUT!_"

"Huh?" the puffball gives the advancing hero and the fairy a quizzical look before closing its eyes taking a deep breath.

"Stop it! _Stop it!_ Fire! _Fire!_" The author, the Terminators, and the clone commados unleash a torrent of projectiles against the pink Pokemon. And for some reason, one of these is a rubber ducky.

"_PUFF!_" With speed belying its rotund form, the little critter leaps at Link, dodging the shots (and the rubber ducky) and landing on the fairy-boy's head, clinging to his hat and hair with its tiny fists.

"Don't _call_ me that!" Link roars at the author, turning around with the puffball atop his head.

"Call you _what?_"

"Don't call me '_fairy-boy!_'"

"_What?_" the author shrugs in his red MJOLNIR armor, "only _Malon_ can call you that?"

"Shut _up_!" The blonde hero's face blanches.

"Oh, _Fairy Boy!_" the author exclaims in a bad falsetto, momentarily lowering his weapon, "_ravish_ me! _Slay_ me with your '_Master Sword!_'" Everyone stares at the author, with perturbed expressions on their faces. Well, the Terminators and Republic Commandos have helmets on their heads that obscure their faces, but it's pretty obvious that they're staring at the author in a manner that says "_dubya-tee-eff, mate!_"

Furious, and crimson in the face, Link grabs Jigglypuff from atop his head and hurls the creature at the author. The author runs the Pokemon through with his M14's bayonet, before firing several times into the critter at point-blank range. "Puuuufffff..." the abomination cries weakly before disappearing back into the Warp-hell from which it had been spawned, in a localized conflagration that consumes its body. The fire dies away and disappears, leaving behind a patch of scorched dirt.

"Our hero has been slain!" the Grunts wail in despair. The Elites tense and start to draw their weapons.

"For summoning the foul beast, and for consorting with the sinister powers of Chaos,..."

"_**And for being aliens!**_" one of the Terminators pipe up.

"...I sentence you to _death!_" the author finishes. As the author shoots each Grunt in the head, the Terminators and clone commandos unleash a hail of gunfire and blaster fire upon the Elites, tearing through the aliens' energy shielding and effectively turning them into sizzling chunks of burnt meat. "Hostiles eliminated," Four-Zero says, lowering his DC17M blaster carbine.

"_**There's another one!**_" a Terminator points at the Arbiter with his assault cannon. The Arbiter shrieks like a little, human girl at the sight of the massive, multi-barrelled cannon being aimed at him. Link arches an eyebrow at the alien.

"Wait!" the author orders, "he's...umm...an Inquisitorial agent!" The Adeptus Astartes halt, a credit to their fanatical devotion and discipline. Taking advantage of the pause, the author snaps his fingers, making an Inquisitorial rosette on a chain appear around the Arbiter's neck. The rosette resembles the letter "I", crossed with the three bars that represent the three main orders of the Inquisition, and a jawless, human skull at the center of the icon. The author continues, "he's guiding us to the objective, so...er...that we may stop the Brutes from unleashing demons upon the universe?" He chuckles nervously, hoping that the Space Marines buy his somewhat flimsy story.

Link whispers, "d'you really think they'll buy that?"

"We'll see," the author mutters.

"**_I see_**," the Terminator sergeant finally nods, forcing down his disgust at the notion of working with an alien. It was not unusual for the Inquisition to hire alien mercenaries, at times. "**_Lead the way, alien,_**" the Space Marine gestures with his humming force sword before thumbing the activation switch into the "off" position. As the blue disruptor field emanating from the blade dissipates, the Arbiter lets out a sigh of relief and opens the door he's been standing by the entire time.

And so, they progress through the level, although the Terminators keep slaughtering anything that isn't human, and screaming "_**DIE, XENO FILTH!**_", among other dogmatic phrases. The clone commandos rarely get off any shots before their targets are eliminated. "They keep stealing my kills," Sev grouses. "I don't see your name on any of 'em," Scorch chuckles, "but, I hear ya; I wanna blow something up, already. Boss, y'got a song to pass the time?" The squad leader shakes his head.

"Life's gonna suck when you grow up, when you grow up, when you grow up! Life's gonna suck when you grow up - it sucks pretty bad, right now!" the author sings and abruptly stops to shoot a Jackal that had hidden behind a crate. The Arbiter quietly addresses the author, "why do you kill the Grunts and my brethren?"

"Well, think about it. Despite all the fan fics that have the ex-Covenant joining the Terrans, that is the most highly unlikely scenario. Sure, there could be a cease-fire and possibly a temporary truce between the factions, but they can't be allies. I think that piece of fiction by Soulguard, '_If You Were My Hero_', was one of the more likely possibilities of what the post-_Halo 2_ setting could be like. Or it'd make a nice transition into the third _Halo_ game. That alliance was only one of convenience. Once they stop Truth, I bet they'll turn on each other and resume fighting."

"Why would it be unlikely?" Three-Eight inquires, as the Deltas are listening while the Terminators are busy killing any alien life form they can find.

"Well, the Covenant are a bunch of religious nuts," the author explains, "and as history has demonstrated, conservative, right-wing, religious fanatics hold unshakable beliefs. Plus, the Elites and Grunts just hate humans, and find them utterly disgusting; the latter was even mentioned in the _Halo_ novels. And the humans would probably hate them right back, since, y'know, they were getting their asses handed to them by the aliens. It'd be like the same universe that the Space Marines hail from. Except without the legions of superhuman clone soldiers. And the powers of Chaos aren't of any concern, because people are already screwed up, overly decadent and imperfect, anyway."

"What about those SEAL-Grunts you had earlier?" the Arbiter asks. "They followed _your_ orders!"

"Simple. They were unmodified clones that I had growing since the beginning of the previous parody."

The Deltas ponder on the implications of this information as they finally arrive at the platform where the massive Scarab, controlled by Sergeant Johnson, is parked. The Arbiter soils his armor as he sees the massive war machine pointing its main cannon right at him. Dwarfed by the heavily armored behemoth, the Terminator Space Marines aim their weapons at the arachnoid walker, unsure of the threat posed by it.

"_Hey, headbutt-boy!_" Johnson's voice says over the external speakers, "_get a Banshee and cover me! We're gonna _RAWK_ the building that Mowhawk is hidin' in!_"

"Who's 'Mowhawk'?" Four-Zero asks nobody in particular.

"Tartarus, the Brute Chieftain," the Arbiter replies. "Author, what is our course of action?"

"Hold up." The red-armored author turns to the Deltas, "take the Terminators and get aboard the Scarab. We'll rendezvous inside the control room for this Halo. Stick with Johnson."

"Yes, sir!" the commandos nod and hurry to board the Scarab.

The author turns to face the Arbiter, and says dramatically, "let's take those Banshees." In slow-motion, the two of them stride toward the parked Banshees, with the Backdraft music playing - again, from out of nowhere. Finally getting aboard the Banshees, they power up and take off, and the music abruptly, yet tastefully, changes to Kenny Loggins' "The Danger Zone." As soon as they rise into the air, they come under immediate attack by Covenant Wraith mortars and enemy Banshees.

"_Why are they attacking us with only one or two at a time?_" the Arbiter queries.

"_Because the Covenant forces are typically led by retards who only win because of their superior technology and numbers._"

"_Hahaha! That sounds about right._" The Arbiter pauses as he realizes something. "_Wait a minute..._hey!"

"_Dude, didn't you see what happened in the last parody?_"

"_No, but..._"

"_The Chief was facing off against an Elite zealot guarding a bridge, and scared it into jumping off said bridge with a _plasma grenade!" the author exclaims, "_you 'Elites' are goddamned_ idiots!"

"_Oh? And _'Keez' _was superior to us in terms of intelligence?_"

The author hesitates before letting out a sigh. "Touche. _Keyes_ was _an idiot, rest his soul._"

The Scarab fires its main gun, blasting Wraith after Wraith, while the shade turret opens up on the enemy Banshees buzzing over the lumbering walker. The plasma mortars splash against the impervious, alloyed armor of the four-legged machine, leaving only slight discolorations or scorch marks in the reflective surface. The Terminators brace themselves with their armored feet and legs on the upper deck of the Scarab, firing at the Banshees with their weapons and even managing to blow a few up with their powerful, high-caliber munitions.

The Banshees begin concentrating on the Scarab, firing their fuel rod guns and blazing away with their plasma cannons. The hulking Terminators merely side-step the shots, not even flinching as fuel rods explode right next to them.

"_Let's help 'em out_," the author radioes the Arbiter. The Elite's Banshee waggles its wings and swoops down at a strafing Banshee, loosing blue-white plasma at the enemy craft. The awkward ship explodes in a blue-white cloud of plasma and electricity, raining debris down upon the ground. The charred, half-disintegrated corpse of the Brute pilot lands on the edge of the deck before being kicked off by the heavy boot of the Terminator sergeant. All the while, Link is cowering on the ramp with his shield in hand, desperately trying to ignore Navi's mantra of, "_hey! Listen! Watch out!_" In irritation, a Terminator nails the fairy with a round from his storm bolter, somehow only knocking her out.

As they finally reach the control room facility, Johnson starts firing the Scarab's cannon at it in an attempt to make an opening in the otherwise impregnable structure. The Arbiter and the author both crash-land their Banshee fliers and enter. In a brilliant flash of light, the Terminator squad teleports in, with the marine non-com and the shaken Delta Squad in tow.

"W-what was that?" Scorch queries. The author sighs and slaps his faceshield, "dammit. I should have warned you, teleporters and faster-than-  
light devices in the Warhammer 40,000 universe usually open a dimensional rift and must travel through the Warp. It's like hyperspace, except with a shitload of freaky demons and crap screaming and clawing at you the entire time."

"Oh." Fixer says simply, with a hint of sarcasm, "is that all?"

"I liked it in there," Sev mutters.

"You all right, Deltas?" the author asks, giving the squad's sniper a quizzical look.

"We're good to go," Boss nods in response to the author's query.

"Besides, those '_demons_' were a bunch of weenies," Johnson growls.

"Oh really?" The author eyes the smelly, wet spot in the marine's trousers.

"Also," the sergeant says, "I think I need to change my underwear."

"No time!" exclaims the Arbiter, "we must stop Tartarus from activating Halo!"

"**_Yes,_**" the Terminator sergeant thumps his storm bolter against his ceramite breastplate. "_**We must not allow them to open this gateway and unleash the demonic forces of the Warp upon the Imperium.**_"

"Let's get a move on," the author nods in agreement. "Delta Squad, take point. The Arbiter and I will be right behind you. I want the Terminators bringing up the rear." The Deltas compose themselves and double-check their DC17s, while everyone else follows suit. The author checks a large, holstered bolt pistol on his hip before checking his M14. The Arbiter had picked up an energy sword, earlier in the mission, and still carries his plasma rifle. Johnson is armed with an SRS99C S2 AM semi-atuomatic rifle. How he got his hands on one, especially after being captured and imprisoned by the Covenant, is beyond me.

As the team makes its way through the facility, the halls are eerily quiet.

"This gives me the creeps," Scorch says. "Even worse than that little trip through the Warp."

"_**Stay vigilant, brothers,**_" the Terminator sergeant tells his squad, "_**the enemy must be nearby, laying in wait.**_"

"Should be fun," Zero-Seven opines. "I wanna kill something, already!"

"Are we there yet?" the Arbiter whines. The author, Four-Zero, and Three-Eight quietly shake their heads. The Elite repeats, "are we there, yet?"

"Shut _up_!" the author hisses. "Enemy contacts, ahead. Everyone take cover; let's surprise 'em."

"How do you know?" Four-Zero asks as everyone hides behind support pillars lining the high, vaulted walls.

"Motion-sensors," the author replies, triple-checking his M14 and making sure his bayonet is properly secured.

"Those sensors would come in handy," Three-Eight says, "any chance we could throw those into our payment? Along with installation?"

"Eh, sure, whatever. Everyone get ready."

As the four Brutes stroll past, they are jumped by our heroes. The Terminators quickly, noisily, and messily take down the Brutes, cutting them down with their weapons and powerfists. Several more Brutes and a formation of shield-bearing Jackals enter, alerted by the commotion. The author, Fixer and Scorch hit the deck while Sev and Boss take cover behind the pillars, again. The Terminators, however, stand firm and unleash a hail of storm bolter fire as the Jackals slowly advance. The Arbiter cloaks himself and starts sneaking up the ramp.

"Scorch! Fixer! I want heavy weapons and grenades on those Jackals, now!" Scorch quickly assembles his DC17M blaster into the anti-armor configuration and fires a charge at the encroaching aliens. Seeing the Jackals' formation of shields disrupted, and their own slain brethren at the feet of their enemies, some of the more impulsive Brutes barrel forward with shoulders and heads lowered, trampling some of the less fortunate Jackals in their rage-fueled rampage.

Firing their weapons, the Terminator Space Marines charge forth to meet the aliens with a cry of, "For the Emperor and the Primarch!"

The author joins them, only managing to keep up because the Adeptus Astartes are bogged down by the sheer weight of their bulky Terminator armor, firing his M14 from the hip. Johnson waddles behind them, visibly uncomfortable with his messy trousers. All the same, he manages to pick off some Brutes and keeps the Jackals' heads behind their somewhat translucent shields.

With a high-ground advantage, the Brutes tackle the Terminators and the author. The Space Marines do not falter, however, and blast the simian aliens with their powerful bolters and assault cannons; the former also cut the aliens down with their bladed weapons, while the latter smash and fell them with their massive power fists. The author, however, manages to side-step his own opponent and empties ten rounds of .308 Winchester into the creature's upper back, its neck, and its head. The beast looses its footing and slams into the ramp, nearly flattening Scorch.

"Headshot!" the author crows before an overcharged plasma pistol shot slams into him from behind, taking down his suit's shields and leaving him highly vulnerable. "Oh _crap._"

The author takes cover as he waits for his shields to recharge, occasionally peeking from behind the pillar and firing at any Jackals that aren't looking. All the while, the author tracks the Arbiter's movement. _Nice_, he thinks, _he's hiding in the shadows when his active camouflage wears off. _The Terminators, apparently, are aware of the Arbiter's presence, as they successfully avoid hitting him with their volleys of fire. In minutes, the Terminators dispatch the rest of the Brutes and advance upon the remaining Jackals.

To the amazement of the commandos, a cluster of Jackals is sent flying through the air, their bodies cut into pieces by a floating energy blade.

"_It's a hunter-killer sword!_" Scorch screams.

"_Cool!_" Sev exclaims. At that point, the Arbiter's cloaking device deactivates. "Oh," the commando says, "it's just _him._"

"Let's make our way into the control room!" the gray-armored Elite says.

Everyone makes haste. The author says to no one in particular, "y'know, I get the distinct feeling that we _forgot_ something."

Back aboard the abandoned Scarab, Link cowers below decks as Wraith mortars strike the hull, and Banshees circle around the immobile walker while peppering it with plasma fire and fuel rods. Of course, the bombardment is doing little to no damage, whatsoever. Unless you count the ruined finish.

"_HELP MEEEEEEEEE!_" the blonde hero screams.

Back to the control room, the author inwardly shrugs to himself, "meh. Guess it was nothing."

Upon their arrival, they spot Tartarus and his retinue of Brutes surrounding a glowing, holographic control panel. Tartarus is man-handling a struggling Miranda Keyes, while 343 Guilty Spark flits around the Brute chieftain's head.

"_Come,_ Reclaimer," Tartarus says, his massive hands tightly gripped around Miranda's. The Brute has forced the Index into the commander's hands and is apparently trying to force her to insert the Index into the panel. "It is _simple_. All you have to do is _insert_ the key..."

"_Please_ be careful," the floating, blue lightbulb pleads, "this Reclaimer is most _delicate_!" Growling, Tartarus grabs the monitor and snarls, "_you shut up_! Or I'll gouge out your eye and fuck your socket!"

"I don't think that would be pleasurable for either of us," Guilty Spark comments.

"Please don't sodomize the lightbulb," Johnson says as he shoots Tartarus in the head.

"Ow," the Brute chieftain deadpans. "Why'm I not _dead?_"

"Because you're not supposed to die, yet," the author says.

"Right. Anyway," the Brute grabs Keyes's hands and sticks the Index into the slot. "Now the Great Journey shall begin! And there will be no more _Starbucks_ coffee houses, _Walmarts_, or _Jamba Juice_ stores!"

"_BOSS BATTLE!_" the author screams. Dramatic music starts playing and the scene darkens. When the darkness recedes, the Brute Chieftain, the Arbiter, the Terminator sergeant, Delta Three-Eight, and the author are all standing in a line facing Tartarus, who has become inexplicably huge and has a slightly different, more menacing art style. The heroes lined up against the Brute chieftain are all "super-deformed", with big heads and stubby limbs. Although there isn't as noticeable effect on the Space Marine, since they look like super-deformed doughboys. But they're still badasses. Anyway, on the catwalk above, the rest of Delta Squad, Johnson, and the Terminators are busy fending off Tartarus's Brutes. Dramatic, stereotypical, role-playing, Super Nintendo-esque, game music starts playing. For some inexplicable reason, none of the combatants are able to advance or retreat, and a blue menu, divided into two blocks, appears at the bottom of the screen.

In the left box - in bold, white lettering - is the name "**TARTARUS THE HORNBALL**." In the right box are the names of the heroes, along with fractions with varying values, followed by "HP". Next to them are bars that are filling with color.

"Okay, what the _futch_ is _this_?" the Arbiter asks.

"_BOSS BATTLE!_" the author repeats.

"'_Boss battle_'?" Boss inquires. His bar fills up and a menu pops up. "What the hell? '**Fight**'? '**Magic**'? '**_Item_**'? What _is_ all this?" The commando selects "**Fight**" and the words "**DC17M Blaster**" appear in the air. Then Boss's blaster fires. Blue blaster bolts hit Tartarus, and a white number appears at his furred, elephantine feet. Three-Eight's bar has emptied itself and is already charging up, again.

Suddenly, Tartarus's image flickers and the words "**Fist of Rukt**" appear in the air. Tartarus brings his hammer down onto the ground before him, and an unseen force hits our heroes. They all flinch and brace themselves against the shockwave, and little white numbers appear at their feet. Weakened, the commando is forced to kneel.

"Three-Eight! On your next turn, cast "**Heal**" on us, under your '**Magic**' menu!" the author says. Boss merely shakes his head, capable of only watching and waiting, now.

The Terminator sergeant's bar fills up and his menu comes up. The menu reads: "**Fight**," "**Storm Bolter**," and "**Item**." The Sergeant selects "**fight**" and the words "**Power Sword**" appear on the screen. With that, the sergeant stomps forward and slashes at Tartarus. However, the word "**Miss**" appears at the Brute's feet.

Shortly after that, the Arbiter's bar fills up. His menu reads: "**Fight**," "**Magic**," and "**Item**." The Arbiter selects "**Item**" and the following items appear on his list: _A rubber ducky, a coconut, four plasma grenades, a rubber band, three paper clips, and a partridge in a pear tree._ The Elite selects the plasma grenades and the words "**Select Target**" appear on the screen. He selects Tartarus, and the text disappears. Then, the words "**Plasma Grenade**" appear on the screen. The Elite chucks a plasma grenade that sticks to Tartarus and detonates. Another white number appears at the chieftain's feet.

"We have to stop the Halo from firing!" Commander Keyes shouts.

"Not while Mowhawk is still down there, ma'am!" Johnson bellows. "Let the others handle it!"

"Hurry it up, down there, sirs!" Four-Zero shouts.

"Eh, I'm lazy. Let's end this," the author says as his bar finishes filling. His menu reads: "**Fight**," "**Magic**," and "**Item**." He selects "**Magic**" and selects "**Summon**." After a moment, and after the author's bar has emptied, the words "**Mighty Smiting Bat**" appear on the screen. The author steps forth and holds up his hands. In a brilliant flash of light, the Mighty Smiting Bat appears and falls, hitting him in his faceshield.

"_No!_" Tartarus screams. "**_NNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!11!1!1one!oenoneeleventyone!1!_**"

"_Again_, with the trashing of my awesome movie!" George Lucas complains, appearing abruptly out of nowhere.

The author leaps into the air and grabs a handful of Tartarus's thick, white fur on the side of the alien's face. Like the Force Commander from _Warhammer 40,000: Dawn of War_, he swings the Mighty Smiting Bat at Tartarus's head, slamming the powerful weapon into the simian creature's head and face. Finally, dazed by the brutal assault, Tartarus crashes to the ground. At the same time, the author deftly lands on his feet a short distance away, turns, and slams the Bat into the Brute's head in a fatal, finishing blow.

Tartarus fades away and is no more.

Miranda leaps down and glomps the author. "That was..._hot_!" she says. The Terminator gives a respectful nod, murmuring, "**_not bad._**"

"_Wait!_" the author attempts to fend off the commander. "What about the _Halo?_" Everyone freezes and sees the Index still in place. They madly rush for the console and, with much scrabbling of hands, they wrench the key out. The energy building up in the control center flares before sputtering and dying. In space, where a glowing ball of energy has been steadily growing and pulsing, is hit by the energy flare. There is a brilliant flash of light and the energy dissipates into the darkness of space.

"Well, the universe is safe for the moment," the author sighs in relief.

"**_What do you mean?_**" the Terminator sergeant inquires.

"This Halo has sent an activation to the other Halos that exist. They're all in stand-by mode and're ready to be fired."

"_WHAT?_" exclaim Johnson and Keyes. The clones, Terminators, and the Arbiter all stare at the author expectantly.

"You are correct, Reclaimer," Guilty Spark replies. "However, the Halos may only be activated from the main control facility."

"And where the hell is that?" Sergeant Johnson asks.

"Earth," the author answers. "Somewhere in the Sol System."

"_Correct_," Guilty Spark bobs in the air, with a hint of irritation.

"So we have to get back to Earth," Keyes says.

"Well, the Chief is already on his way," the author says, "I've sent Samus and Omega to accompany him in his mission..."

"Which is...?"

"To follow the Prophet of Truth. The snail is on his way to Earth as well. We won't have to worry, but we should make best speed back to Earth."

"Then...what do we do now?" Scorch asks.

"We wait."

"'_Wait_'?" everyone looks at the author, incredulous.

"Well, _duh! Halo 3_ hasn't come out yet!"

Everyone, except for the author, facefaults.

**To Be Continued...**

Author's Note: Wooo! One more chapter! Not like I entirely care, but I'm a little surprised to see that fewer people seem to be reading. Or leaving reviews. Well, whatever. It was just an observation I made. Anyway...yeah. I'm running out of ideas, I think. Just in time, eh? Hehehe. However, I've had the ending in mind since the beginning of this parody. Hopefully, it'll make you laugh. For various reasons. One of which: Halo 2's ending sucked. It was an abrupt cliffhanger with no real sense of closure. Not like the first game. Although I will be doing the "abrupt cliffhanger" ending, I'm hoping that the way I do it will be amusing.

Anyway...yeah. Hope some of you earlier readers are still enjoying this. I kind of have fun looking back and reading what I've written. Although the typos make me cringe.

Tiger Tank.


	10. High Charity

High Charity (Or I Would Have Come Up With Something Funny To Parody "High Charity", But I Couldn't)

The Master Chief gets aboard the Sazabi, the latter towering over the former on the platform. The mobile suit's scuffed, red, battle-scarred armor plating does little to detract from its appearance - if anything, it seems to add character. Once seated and secured in the Sazabi's cockpit, the Chief scans around the monstrous interior of High Charity, and manages to catch a glimpse of the author's gunship just as it leaves through a newly made hole in the hull. A proximity alert catches the Chief's attention; a gaggle of Banshee fliers suddenly swoop at the Master Chief, their plasma cannons blazing.

The plasma bolts impact against the Sazabi's shield, the Master Chief having brought it up into position. Grinning, the Spartan aims and fires the Sazabi's beam shot-rifle several times, making short work of the Covenant craft.

"All too easy," the Chief murmurs to himself as he lifts off and flies toward the bizarre Forerunner ship that acts as High Charity's power source. The Sazabi merely blocks and shrugs off the attacks by Covenant anti-air batteries, and enemy fighters are merely shot down.

"This is almost _too_ easy."

Suddenly, a familiar, white mobile suit appears, its trademark visage immediately identifying it.

"A Gundam!" Indeed, it is the long-lost RX-78-2 Gundam, which hasn't been seen since the last parody. However, its once-pristince, gleaming, white armor is now darkened by carbon scoring, and the armor itself is in sorry shape. One of the antennae on the Gundam's head seems to have been snapped off, as well.

"**_ACK! ACK! THPT!_**" a Flood combat form, wearing an Earth Federation spacesuit, suddenly appears in a small communications window on the Chief's viewscreen. The Flood form's helmet visor has evidently been shattered, leaving its grotesque face exposed for the Master Chief to see. In an instant, the Chief recognized the distorted features of Amuro.

"What the--?" The Chief is unable to finish his question as the connection is abruptly severed.

The Gundam draws its beam rifle and fires at the Sazabi. The Chief rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding the lance of energy. The Gundam fires follow-up shots, and the Sazabi manages to dodge each one. In a matter of moments, the Gundam's beam rifle is out of energy. In the same instant, the Gundam hurls the depleted beam rifle at the Chief and draws its beam sword. The Sazabi avoids the beam rifle and fires its shotrifle at the oncoming Gundam.

Shrugging off the hail of energy bolts, the white mobile suit raises its beam sword for an overhead strike as it closes in.

Leaving it wide open.

"I have you _now_," the Master Chief murmurs as he breaks out the Sazabi's own, massive, broad-sword-esque beam saber. The yellow energy blade hisses into existence and the Sazabi strikes.

The Gundam is cleaved in two before it suddenly explodes. The Master Chief doesn't have much time to celebrate as another alarm sounds in his cockpit. A bazooka round slams into the Sazabi's back, throwing the Spartan forward against his restraints. Taking advantage of the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree viewscreen, the Chief spots a pink Zaku II armed with a massive 280mm bazooka.

"_Dammit!_" the masked pilot of the Zaku screams defensively, "_it's not pink! It's_ salmon!"

"_No...it's definitely pink_," the Master Chief says.

"_Lightish red!_"

They have a name for that color, Char. I believe it's "pink."

"_SHUT UP, DAMMIT!_"

"_He has a point,_" the Chief agrees with the author.

"_YOU TOO! SHUT UP!_" The Zaku II fires again, but the Sazabi blocks the shot with its shield. "_It's not pink! It's not pink!_ IT'S! NOT! PINK!"

"_You're so insecure._" The Sazabi flies toward the Zaku II and deploys its complement of small drone guns, otherwise known as "bits". The bits open fire as the Spartan closes the distance, with the Sazabi's massive beam sword in the red mobile suit's metalshod hand. However, the Zaku manages to down a few of the Sazabi's drone guns, and dodges the shots fired by the others. Char's Zaku's mono-eye glows menacingly, as if taking offense to the attack.

"_I hope you brought your wallet, 'cos the rent in Hell gets paid in advance!_" Char screams as his Zaku II prepares to administer a shoulder-bash.

The Sazabi slices the Zaku II in half, and the halves are blown into scrap by the former's bits. There's a massive, blinding, nuclear explosion, courtesy of the Zaku II's reactor going off. The Master Chief only stares at the blinding light, the Sazabi posing dramatically as it sits in the air on a plume of thrusterfire.

"_Chief!_" Samus's voice cuts in over his helmet radio, "_hurry up! Truth's getting away! His ship is powering up!_"

"_Wha--?_"

Sure enough, the bizarrely-shaped, skeletal craft begins to disengage itself from High Charity's power grid. Samus's oblong, golden gunship flashes past the Sazabi's head as it heads toward the ancient Forerunner ship. Re-orienting the Sazabi, the Chief follows suit. However, as soon as the Forerunner ship has cleared from its former resting place, it opens up a portal into Slipspace.

The Chief was startled by this reckless maneuver, despite the fact that he'd seen it happen once, already. Even so, the Covenant entering Slipspace within Earth's atmosphere was one thing - doing so within their own command ship was definitely something else.

Then again, given the level of Flood activity throughout the Covenant armada, it was better to write off the ship as a loss.

But those idiots were doing it all wrong!

"_**YOU IDIOTS ARE SUPPOSED TO BLOW THE SHIPS UP IF YOU CAN'T SAVE THEM!**_" the Chief screams at the top of his lungs. Which would probably be a bad thing to do when you have a sealed helmet that encloses your head. But the Chief is such a badass, it doesn't really affect him. Yeah.

The Chief and Samus follow the Forerunner ship through the Slipspace hole...(disregarding all of the dangers of entering Slipspace in a small craft that were clearly described in the novels)

The space around High Charity is cluttered with even more wreckage than before, Covenant and Imperial, alike. The majestic, battle-scarred battle barges unleash volley after volley of blue-white, man-made lightning, followed up by waves of deadly torpedoes, downing shields and even destroying some of the Covenant ships. Few of the Covenant ships turn their attention to the marauding humans, concentrating on firing upon their former allies for various reasons.

Already, the Flood presence has managed to spread throughout the Covenant armada, and the Elites and Brutes are busy trying to destroy the "desecrated" ships. Despite their efforts, the infestation spreads quickly. For every Covenant ship that is destroyed, two more seem to be subverted by the Flood.

Put simply, it's a catastrophic mess on an unimaginably massive scale. Fortunately, this means that the numbers of Covenant ships are diminishing greatly, reducing the threat to humanity posed by the Covenant. However, that does not reduce the threat posed by the Flood.

The _Perdition's Flame_ lobs its last thermonuclear warhead into the fray, extensive and exhausting calculations being made to ensure that the blast does not severely damage her allies. With that last shot, a female officer - the fleet commander - calmly begins issuing orders. Even while she's doing so, the captains of the vessels acknowledge her orders and begin carrying them out, issuing their own sets of orders.

"_All ships, advance and engage the enemy. Mobile suit teams Delta, Omega, and Theta, you are clear to engage. I want Phi team to stay with the Flame and guard it. Gamma team, stand by and prepare for immediate launch. Destroyer group Bravo, follow them in. Destroyer group Alpha, I want you to split into two subgroups and assign one to guard the Flame. The other subgroup is to follow Bravo. All hands, stay on the alert for enemy boarding actions. Initiate lockdown sequence, and secure the cloning chambers - seal all bulkheads._"

With the huge, rotund carriers flanking her on either side, the Flame's rear thrusters ignite, moving the ship forward through the vacuum, her six point-defense turrets swiveling about on their mounts and scanning the immediate space around the mothership. The carriers follow suit, their own defense turrets blasting apart any stray Seraph fighters that wander within range.

Half-a-dozen of the smaller, bulky destroyers advance ahead, following the nine ZGMF1017 GINN mobile suits leading the charge. Like winged angels of death, the cyan-and-grey mobile suits wreak havoc upon the Covenant ships, evading plasma torpedoes and energy beams with little effort. The GINNs armed with assault rifles draw their swords and destroy any Seraph fighters they happen across. The GINNs armed with the massive, recoil-less rifles concentrate on hammering away at the capitol ships, keeping the ship gunners busy with their maneuverability.

In short order, the destroyers catch up and join the fray, their ion beams raking through the Covenant formations and decimating them. A flurry of guided missiles belch from the ships' dorsal-mounted missile turrets, pounding away at the Covenant ship hulls. Their point-defense turrets blaze away, spitting fiery red plasma against any unfriendly vessels within range.

The author appears in a flash of light aboard the Perdition's Flame, before a holographic projection system at the center of the command ship's war room. He watches the battle intently as a middle-aged woman - the commander - approaches him. He turns and nods at the high-ranking officer respectfully, bowing slightly as he does so.

"What is your status, Vice-Admiral Meredith?"

"Author," the blonde officer nods. "The battle goes well. Our mobile suit teams have engaged, except for five that we hold in reserve, and our destroyers have just made contact. We are closing in at best speed. Many of the Covenant ships have already been destroyed."

"We must ensure that the Flood do not escape. We must burn every last Covenant ship, and we must ensure that no Flood survive within the wreckage."

"We'll do our best."

The author fixes her with a stare, "make sure you do. Or we will be partly responsible for unleashing something upon the sector that rivals The Beast, in terms of devastation." The Vice-Admiral gulps and nods. "By the way...while you are cleaning up here, I would like to take a detachment of ships back to the Sol system..."

"What do you need?"

"A carrier, with a full complement of Acolytes and GINNs, and a pair of destroyers should do."

"Expecting some heavy fighting?" the admiral asks, half-jokingly. The author does not reply. Meredith sighs at his silence, "I think we can spare that. It just might take more time to clean-up around here, but we'll just have to make do."

"Thank you, Admiral," he replies sincerely, bowing his head. "If there's anything..."

She waves her hand dismissively, "don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're letting us keep the mobile suits and the other technology - Kiith Somtaaw will definitely need them to fight off the Taiidani Imperialists and Turanic Raiders."

"And to compete with your fellow Hiigarans," the author dryly points out.

"The Kiith'sa of Nabaal will definitely soil himself when he sees these," Meredith grins as she gestures to the holographic representations of the GINNs flitting in and about the Covenant fleet. "If anything, I think we owe you."

"Even trade," the author shakes his head. "I provide the tech, you lend me the resources and the manpower." The author checks his chrono and nods. "I must go, Vice-Admiral. I'll be in touch." With that, the author teleports out in an incandescent flash of blinding light. The Vice-Admiral contacts one of the carrier captains to make the necessary arrangements, "Captain Sobel? Yes, the Author--good. Follow his orders to the letter. Understood?"

With that, the connection terminates and the officer returns her attention to the holographic displays. After a few moments, one of the carriers and a pair of destroyers jump into hyperspace.

"Good luck," the Vice-Admiral murmurs quietly, to no one in particular.

Over Earth, the remnants of the Covenant fleet continue to kick the crap out of the UNSC fleet for some inexplicable reason. Oh right, their supposed "technological superiority." Mobile suits pepper the Covenant ships with apparently ineffective fire, managing to dodge the plasma weapons being fired at them.

Admiral Hood is still in the command center of the Cairo, growling and roaring orders over the blaring of the station's klaxons. Wounded marines lay on the deck, clutching their wounds and/or screaming at the tops of their lungs. At Hood's feet lay several discarded popcorn boxes, along with an empty pizza box.

"Keep firing! Shore up the defenses and don't let those Covenant bastards advance another millimeter! Swab the poop deck! Water my cat! Walk my dog! Someone get me a goddamned Hot Pocket!"

"Sir," one of the techs report, "unidentified ship has just exited Slipspace and is headed towards Earth!" The bizarre Forerunner ship passes through the glowing, green portal of light, followed by the Sazabi and Samus's gunship. "Correction! Two unidentified ships and the Master Chief!"

"Don't interrupt me, Ensign! Now fetch me a Hot Pocket! None of the pansy-assed Lean Pocket crap, either! I want lots and lots of cheese to clog up my circulatory system!"

"Sir, incoming transmission!"

"What did I just say about interrupting me?" Hood indignantly demands, thrusting his finger at the technician.

"It's the Master Chief!"

"What? Put that slacker on the line! Master Chief, what the hell are you doing?"

"_Sir_," the Chief's gravelly voice replies, "_finishing this fight, sir!_"

"Goddammit, Chief! I thought you _killed_ Chuck Norris! He's ass-raping our defenses and _stealing our Hot Pockets!_"

"_What?_"

On cue, Chuck Norris appears, flying in Wing Gundam Zero. The Gundam flies into the Sazabi's path, causing the Chief to cry out and veer away. Turning to face Wing Zero, the Sazabi draws a bead on the winged Gundam formerly piloted by a suicidal, psychopathic pretty-boy that acted like a friggin' cyborg. Now, said winged Gundam is piloted by insanely powerful, bad-assed, martial arts

"_John,_" Chuck Norris's gloating visage appears in a vid-link window on the Chief's heads-up display screen, "_welcome back! I've missed you!_"

"Impossible!" the Chief gasps, "I thought I--!"

Suddenly, the screen goes blank and the following appears in large, bold, white text: **OMIGAWDTHEFANFICISOVERHOWLAMEISTHAT?**

"_DAMN YOU, BUNGIE!_" the author screams at the top of his lungs, standing up in the screening room, clad in white Phase One Clone Trooper armor and with DC15 blaster carbine in hand. Samus, Delta Squad, and the Master Chief - all without armor - stare at the author with bewildered expressions on their faces.

"That was _lame_," George Lucas comments. The author rolls his eyes behind his helmet faceshield, muttering "better'n Revenge of the Sith" under his breath.

"_STUFFU, NOOB! REVENGE OF TEH SITH AM BESTEST MOVIE EVAR!!!_"

"C'mon, that movie was _lame!_" Scorch shakes his head, "I mean...the _Clone Troopers_ being turned _against_ the Jedi? What kind crap is _that_?"

"The Clones were all genetically modified to be docile and to accept orders," Lucas says sagely while holding up his index finger. "They're not capable of thinking that much, after all."

"But--but--_LAME!!_" Scorch sputters. Fixer pats his "brother" on the shoulder, "don't worry about it, Six-Two."

"This was a _bust,_" Samus sighs before looking up at the Chief with mischievous, blue eyes, "so where d'ya wanna go, now, _big guy?_"

"I dunno. Let's go have hawtt, gratuitous, sweaty seckz!" Without a second's hesitation, Samus grabs the Master Chief and hauls him out of the screening room so fast, she kicks up a considerable amount of dust, leaving everyone else blinking and rubbing their eyes.

Exchanging shrugs, the author and the Republic Commandos get up and leave the screening room. Now alone, Lucas rubs his hands together, "Indiana Jones 4 is gonna be the bestest movie _evar!_"

The End?

Author's Note: Oh yeah. That just went downhill, didn't it? If anyone wasn't perceptive enough to tell, I was sort of running out of ideas. So I kind of pulled stuff out of my ass. Yeah, I don't think I'm going to have an extra bonus chapter. I'm pretty much done with this parody. So now, I guess I'll start fleshing out some serious fan fics. I've already got a basic idea, but I'm still having trouble deciding what sort of subplots I want to have, and how the characters are affected - and their relationships, and stuff. We'll see. Blah.

Anyway, to whoever bothered reading this parody, I hope it had some redeeming entertainment value. I had a tough time with both this parody and the previous one because I'm not used to writing in the present tense. So, yeah.

Anyway, keep an eye out for my future works...

Tiger Tank


End file.
